


Mr. Knightley's Ward

by amemerson



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy AF Knightley, F/M, Gen, Just Kidding About That Daddy AF Thing, Just Think of the DRAMA, Once Emma ages more, Orphaned Teen Emma, Possible Cameo Characters Later to Come, Regency, There WILL be a sequel for that..., i dont know how tagging works, you know you want it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amemerson/pseuds/amemerson
Summary: Although always tormented by his irrational fear of illness, eight years ago no one had truly expected Henry Woodhouse to actually fall victim to a sickness that would eventually take his life so suddenly; Neither could anyone believe that George Knightley, who at the peek of his bachelorhood, would succeed in raising the two Woodhouse girls under his care.





	1. Chapter 1

" _Oh!_ "

He had heard the not so quiet gasp throughout the hall as he walked on her side of the west wing of Donwell Abbey.

Her rooms stood just two doors away now, yet the corridor had been eerily quiet—much too quiet.

" _Shhh!_ "

Mr. Knightley, the grand master of his home, simply knew that she certainly must have been up to no good.

Almost rarely had the girl ever calmly kept to herself, much less hidden away at her chambers— in fact even in those frightening periods when overcome with sickness and fever, never could a single soul persuade her to take the bedrest required of her on the behest of Dr. Perry—and certainly much less on a healthy, happy, bright day like the one at present.

No, he agreed with himself, something was not right at all.

After all, Emma Woodhouse had been placed under his care at the tender age of nine, when her father died of illness, and it was due to all the years spent watching over her that he prided himself in knowing the girl quite well indeed.

And to think that he had once already thought to have known her well enough those mere nine years prior, _ha!_

It was however, just one of the reasons why he had accepted, when while in his deathbed Mr. Woodhouse, had begged George Knightley to take pity on his young daughters so that they could remain in Highbury, precisely where they belonged.

Though, already quite the gentleman land owner at the age of five and twenty, he admittedly was nowhere near ready to be charged with the care of two young girls; Isabella who had only just been out in society, and her little sister of seven years her junior.

It was only due to the incredibly high respect he had for his father's old friend, and the Knightley's long standing friendship with the family in question, that George had agreed to honor his promise to the late Henry Woodhouse.

After all, he had already been in charge of his younger brother's care, so really, what trouble could two more possibly cause?

Apparently, quite a lot indeed.

Not only did George have to deal with a then twenty year old John, whom was fresh out of University, but for another, he also had to worry over making sure Isabella was properly chaperoned at all times, now that she had then just been recognized as a respectable young lady.

And of course there was the matter of little Emma, whom George had always been very fond of, and who was of course as sharp and as trouble making as she had always been.

Needless to say, he was ever so glad that he had still acquired the help of the Woodhouse's loyal governess, Miss Taylor, whom proved herself very vital in the raising of the girls.

Yet it had not been until that very Miss Taylor was asked to accompany John and Isabella to a season in Bath, when George Knightley had finally gotten a taste of how life as Emma Woodhouse's guardian would be.

In truth, he always carried high hopes that she would grow to be the perfectly accomplished young lady she should be, and he had made it his own personal duty to see that it would be so.

It certainly should not have been so far fetched a goal, as even at only nine she had already proven to be very clever.

The again, he did suppose Emma had always been a lively child, with pale hazel eyes that shined impishly, and an angelical physical loveliness that only proved to enhance her spoiled nature.

Most days the little blonde was happy and fanciful, but other times, when provoked, had a bitter temper.

And throughout the years, almost eight in fact, her mentor and protector had come to notice that above all else she had a shameless mischievousness about her that could prove itself to be very troublesome indeed.

Silent giggles fluttered behind her bedchamber door, and Mr. Knightley had wasted no time in approaching it.

What could she possibly be up to now?

Ever so softly he rapped on the handsome wood, waiting for the response that never came, and instead was made aware of more giggles and muffled sighs.

Briefly wondering if and who could possibly be keeping her company, and without any more thought to her right of privacy, the gentleman promptly opened her door.

The next gasp that assaulted his ears was the loudest one yet, and unlike the playful little noises she had been uttering previously, this one was one of surprise and horror.

Mr. Knightley was sure that for the whole minute it took him to realize the scene before him was truly happening, his heart had momentarily stopped.

It only seemed to regain its strength only for him to feel it plummet mercilessly to the very bottom of his being.

There she was, Emma as lovely as always, with some boy shamelessly pressed on top of her in her bed.

The young man was quick to jump out of her arms and onto the floor below her, while she clutched one of her elegantly dressed pillows to cover her lack of modesty.

" _Mr. Knightley!_ " she exclaimed, horrified.

Well she seemed horrified, Mr. Knightley observed bitterly, but he knew her too well.

"Get out!” He gritted at the young man—recognizing him as one of his stable boys—and watched him scramble to his feet, warily clutching the few article of clothing he had disrobed as he speed past him and out of the room.

Mr. Knightley was slightly relived to observe that the boy had not been completely naked, at least.

Bitterly, he made note to deal with him later.

He turned to Emma, who still sat up on her duvet, clutching the pillow to her chest, and he was reassured to see that she too was almost fully dressed, for the most part.

An inexplicable force of anger hit him then, and he felt himself grow more and more furious with each step he took towards her.

He was practically seething by the time he reached her, and in one swift move, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her off the bed.

She landed on her knees at his feet but Mr. Knightly swiftly pulled her up, and so intense was his ire that for the split second that she watched him lift his hand up to strike her, Emma felt true fear.

He made to hit her, but stopped himself half way, and dropped his hand.

“M-Mr. Knightley I—

“ _Why?_ …Emma…” He interrupted, and she noticed he was no longer looking at her as he spoke.

His face was turned away from her and was instead fixed towards the direction of the wall opposite them.

And for once in her life, Emma Woodhouse, truly felt ashamed of herself.

" _ **Why do you do this?**_ " His voice was thick with anger, and pain.

She suddenly couldn't find her own voice.

" ** _ANSWER ME!_** " He turned to her then, as he roared the command in the harshest tone she had ever heard him utter.

"I-I… _I_ —

"Do not look so demure, don't you **_dare_ **look demure!" He snapped, inching closer to her as he clutched her shoulders tightly, ”I have had enough of your games! What has been going through your head, Emma?!”

Panicking, she bit her lip.

What _had_ been going through her head? For the life of her, she couldn't seem to remember it now…

"Have I not given you everything you have ever wanted? Have I not taken good care of you—looked after you well?" Mr. Knightley asked, "Did not your Miss Taylor raise a respectable young girl? Where did you get it in your mind that you could do something like this!"

"I— _we_ …Mr. Knightley I—

"You are playing with fire, girl!" he gritted, turning his hard gaze away from her once more.

He still could not believe it—any of it!

"I am _not_ a _girl_ any longer!" Emma suddenly shouted, finally recovering herself.

Mr. Knightley snapped his eyes back to her face, and if he weren't so angry and disappointed, he would have been amused at the indignant look in her beautiful down-trotted gaze.

" ** _Yes._** " Was his cold reply " ** _You most certainly are._** ”

Emma flinched, tears blurring her vision as she attempted to pull away from his unforgiving hold with what little strength her slight figure allowed.

"I'm a woman!" She cried, desperate, " _You_ want to refuse it, but it is the truth, despite the fact that _you_ will always treat me like a _child!_ "

"What you have shown me here today is childishness!” Her guardian countered, holding her arms still, "It is your wish to be treated as an adult—I know—but you do not act like one…and now you do **_this!_** "

"We did nothing serious!"

"This is very serious, Emma!" Mr. Knightley snapped, already worn, ”The mere fact that you can't comprehend the severity of it, is **_exactly_** why you are no woman!”

Despite his ire, he couldn't help but feel the tightening in his chest at the tears that spilled from her pale hazel eyes.

“I am _sixteen!_ " she sobbed, breath ragged, "You have given me everything sir, I do not deny it—but I have no freedom here!”

Outrage overpowered George once again, and his hold on her hardened.

“Because _you_ treat me like a child, everyone _must_ follow in your lead and I am sick of it— _ **I. Am. Sixteen!**_ ”

Her gasps were loud, and her hands shook despite her effort to remove them from his grasp.

Shocked, Mr. Knightley pulled back immediately, removing his much larger and stronger ones from around her wrists, as if they had burned him.

At the sight of the slight bruising of her skin, he forced himself to retreat a step back, from the absolute shame of it.

Despite himself, he then looked down to the palms of his own hands, only to find that they too were trembling.

And even in contempt of his ire, the loud and unpleasant gears inside his throbbing head made quick work of attempting to reorganize the jumbled mess laid siege in his mind.

For George would certainly think himself very daft indeed if he were to swiftly not comprehend now, what could have possibly been going through his ward's mind—and _what_ exactly had transpired here.

Emma was the essence of mischief, it was true, but despite her naturally flirty way and her easy to come by and charming charisma, she was not a wanton girl—she was no _whore_ —but she was cunning, and while he now seemed to understand that her actions were powered by her anger and desperation in getting her way—by showing him that she was certainly not a child—he was still very displeased.

It would never change the fact that she was reckless and wrong, and that had he not found her out in time—despite of her silly belief that nothing serious would have transpired—she could have been ruined forever!

He would never have forgiven himself if she had been, nor would he have forgiven her.

“…And as a protest, you do _this_ …?” He finally responded, looking her hard in the eyes.

“Emma, this was badly done—you have completely tarnished your reputation, even before it started—and now I am left with having to fix your blunder, as I have had to do with all your other errors!"

The young girl, now much calmed, ignored the slight stinging of her wrists as she lowered her eyes and bowed her head in shame.

She had only wanted to prove to Mr. Knightley that she was no longer a child.

Though not only had her plan backfired on her, it had hardly even been executed correctly!

She had only meant to flirt with William, hoping to capture his attentions so that whenever Mr. Knightley was around, he could realize that if other people no longer saw her as a little girl, then perhaps neither would he.

But curiosity _had_ gotten the best of her, and before she knew it, she had given away her first kiss.

And that only served to lead strange new warm feelings in the flutter of her stomach, which lead to more kisses—and soon they were in her room and it all seemed so clever to her at the time—she thought that maybe, if she continued to kiss and touch William, then perhaps there would be no doubt in _anyone's_ mind about her being a woman.

And to a very horrible and wrong extent she had indeed wanted someone to find them both in that way.

Because she was tired of being treated as a child—of being trapped in the Abbey, while other girls her age were all allowed to attend balls and go on seasons.

She had been desperate, and now she was ashamed.

"Emma…"

She looked up to find Mr. Knightley's dark blue eyes staring back at her, and she noticed with some slight relief that they were not nearly as cold and angry as they had been moments ago, though Emma's shame heightened when she realized she had never seen them so sad and hurt before.

They were beautiful, and it truly broke her heart.

"Dry your tears" he muttered, coyly bringing his thumb up so he could gently wipe the long wet trail marring her left cheek, "you are not a child any longer, I know…but you certainly are still very young…and I also happen to know that we all make mistakes when we are young”

Forcing himself to push forward despite the discomfort of the situation, he swallowed thickly, “It is our duty to learn from those mistakes"

Emma nodded, trying to offer a small, compliant smile, but it only forced more tears to well up in her eyes.

“I'm so sorry…Mr. Knightly…” she whimpered miserably.

Whether she truly realized the extreme severity of her actions and regretted them or not, he could never know for sure, but he wanted to believe she did—and he would believe it as blindly as he could, for the sake of his own sanity.

" _Shhh_ …" the gentleman responded, conceding at last, and bringing her towards him once more, this time in a comforting hug “…no more crying…what is done is done…”

“—So sorry, I am so sorry!" The blonde girl in his embrace continued to sob, sullen and miserable, while thin pale fingers clutched to his coat in her grief.

Mr. Knightley sighed and laid his cheek on top of the golden crown of her hair, “…no more tears…" he hummed.

No matter how much she did not want to be seen as a little girl—and George had to admit to himself that she had indeed grown into a young woman—he could not help but want to keep her like this forever.

He knew she was overdue for her coming out ball, and that he could not fool himself into stalling it any further, but Emma was precious to him, and his only claim on her was the one he held now as her guardian.

There was no doubt that once she would be out in good society, it would not take long at all for some man to come in and take her from him.

He had always been there for her all her life, from the time she was an infant, to the time she was completely orphaned, to now, where he had just almost lost her—and that thought scared him, especially how it had all been so real.

The truth of the matter was that he had always been her protector, and therefore he could not imagine himself in a world were he no longer was.

George was still angry with her, and he would be for quite some time now, though he could not help but notice that apart from angry and disappointed, he was hurt by her action—more hurt than he would have ever imagined— in fact his heart had yet to calm.

So while he stroked Emma's long hair soothingly, George Knightley couldn't help but clench his strong jaw, as he came to the sudden realization, that he had never _ever_ wanted to hurt another human being more than he did that treacherous stable boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an old story I had been posting on another site about three years ago before life started pelting me with responsibilities. Needless to say, I didn't get very far. Now I have finally come back to it and figured it wouldn't hurt to share it on here as well. Anyone interested in reading ahead of time probably wont have a hard time finding it on the other place, but: 1) You wont get past five chapters anyway, and 2) I'll be revamping most of them on here, so in terms of slightly better writing quality (I hope) and updated material, you might want to stick to these.
> 
> By the way, is this fandom even still alive?? Cause I'm gonna keep posting regardless xD
> 
> (damn it I think I just dated myself)
> 
> Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

William Hill was not a troublemaker by any means, and those who knew him could attest to that, as he had always been a good sort of boy with an easy temperament.

  
He was also very efficient at his job, tending to the horses.

  
In fact, most of the other workers at the Abbey would say that he was very good at it, and even Mr. Knightley himself had once praised him for his efforts.

  
Young Hill chuckled bitterly at that.

  
Mr. Knightley would certainly never praise him ever again, after this day.

  
_Emma Woodhouse_

  
He had always known her smile would someday ruin him.

  
William had admired it for far too long for it to not have—ever since he caught the first glimpse of her, the day she and her sister removed to Donwell.

  
It was a memory that would forever be etched on his mind.

  
He had only been but a lad of eleven then, living with his late mother, who worked at the kitchens.

  
And even as a child, William had always enjoyed spending his time out with the horses at these very grounds.

  
However on that particular day, the whole Abbey had been so anxious in preparation for the arrival of the two Woodhouse girls, and their governess, that even the stables were being cleaned out.

  
So he and the other children were told to play far away from sight, anywhere else around the vast extent of the property.  
  
Most had taken to throwing stones at Mr. Larkin’s office window, a game that required fast footing and a vast hiding experience.

  
Though William never dared take part.

  
Rather, it was while he and his friend Thomas, one of the footmen's son, were out exploring the lake, when one of the carriages from Hartfield had pulled in, arriving just as the afternoon sun had begun peeking through the trees.

  
William was naturally curious, as any other child would have been, so he had taken particular notice when Mr. Knightley and Master John, who had been waiting promptly by the entrance, had step forward to help the three passengers down.

  
The first had been a woman in black, whom had curtsied at them in greeting.

  
The second was a younger lady, whom also wore a black gown, though in a much more elegant style than the first.

  
She had blushed prettily at Master John when he offered her his arm.

  
But it was the last passenger, whom had really caught both his and Thomas's distinct attention.

  
For the little blonde girl who had clung to Mr. Knightley as he helped her down, must had been their age at the most!

  
Of course they had always heard about the infamous younger Miss Emma Woodhouse, whenever she visited Mr. Knightley at Donwell, but neither of them had actually seen her—and by talk of the gossip either boy had been privy to, within the hustle and bustle of the kitchens—they had always seemed to picture a much older person.

  
After all, the older Mr. Knightley could not have possibly have had such a strong friendship with anyone younger, or so they had wrongly assumed!

  
She had been very small then, with skin so pale it contrasted against the dark ebony of her dress in a manner that seemed as if she glowed, and her hair was almost the color of straw—like in the stables where he loved to play—and she was so very pretty.

  
In all his short eleven years of life, never then had William imagined he would dare to ever find _any_ girl pretty at all!

  
They had both continued watching her in unabashed surprise, even as the two gentlemen lead her and the others away towards the Manor.

  
She had been holding Mr. Knightley's hand when they caught her gaze, and from afar he could not tell what color her eyes were, though somehow he knew they would be lovely.

  
Yet he did, however, get to catch the brilliant smile she offered before swiftly turning away to speak with her guardian.

  
It was all it took for him to be mesmerized.

  
So everyday after that faithful afternoon, William had felt himself bewitched by her smile, and would go to great lengths just to catch the young mistress wearing it.

  
And now of course, it would be very fitting indeed, that he would eventually fall ruined because of it.

  
The young man couldn't help but clutch the top of his head in a shamed and desperate awareness.

  
_'My god, what have I done!’_

  
…….

An hour or so later, when Mr. Knightley had managed to be calm enough to trust himself not to do anything that he'd eventually regret, he set out towards the barns in hopes of finding that _ungrateful, no good little_ —

  
“No.”

  
The dark haired man forced the reminder he had imposed upon himself, and with a small sigh he quelled the tangent forming behind his stern brow, attempting somewhat unsuccessfully to control his temper from escalating to the levels he had been trying ever so hard to avoid.

  
_‘Just like Emma, he too is merely young and reckless’_ he cautioned himself, chastising the blood-thirst in his thoughts.

  
After all, George too had once been a young boy…

  
He was not above sympathizing—and really, what man can claim to never have been heedless at least once in their life?

  
Particularly when women—and this he also had learned from a young age— _pretty women especially_ , had a way of drawing even the most foolish of behaviors from out of their masculine counterparts…

  
No, it certainly wasn't that he _couldn't_ understand young Mr. Hill's desires, in truth.

  
It was merely that he could not forgive that the boy had ever even dared to act upon them!

  
And on _his_ ward no less!

  
George felt his fists tighten a little more with each forceful stride, as just thinking about the incident bubbled his blood like no other, and no matter how hard he tried, the gentleman simply could not calm his ire.

  
He found him in one the stables— _'where he should have never left in the first place!’_ Mr Knightley could not help but think bitterly—sitting on a pile of hay, covering his face with his hands, in what the older man assumed, was an ashamed gesture.

  
Unfortunately for the young man, George was by now quite far from the mood to take pity on him, or anyone for that matter.

  
**_"Stand up!”_** he all but snarled.

  
William Hill snapped his head up in surprise, and upon seeing his master, jumped out of his makeshift seat and stood before him with his head bowed low.

  
The older man observed him silently, leveling him with a penetrative gaze, as if he were looking at the boy for the very first time.

  
He really couldn't have been much older than Emma, Mr. Knightley noted, taking in the young mans trembling person.

  
Although quite tall, young Hill still stood about a foot and a half shorter than his employer.

  
He was not a lanky boy by far, sporting the roughened presence that only one whom had spent many days riding and working on a field naturally develop.

  
A presence so different from the ones his ward had ever been accustomed to.

  
After all, what business would a gentleman's daughter possibly have, nor want, with a farm worker?

  
And for a brief second—so very brief in fact, that perhaps he hardly even realize he had done it—George wondered what it was that Emma had found pleasing about the boy in the first place.

  
Was she attracted to his strawberry blond waves? Or had the deep green irises of his eyes, of which wouldn't dare look up at him, been what captivated her so?

  
They stood like this for what felt like an eternity.

  
Perhaps in reality it could not have been less than half an incredibly tense minute, swallowing them whole, before one of them eventually tore through the silence.

  
"Sir, I am sor—

  
"No." Mr. Knightley swiftly cut him off, interrupting the boy's ridiculous notion of even assuming that he could merely offer him a simple, pitiful apology.

  
William's frown deepened, but still he did not dare lift his head.

  
“Sir, you have every right to punish me as severe—

  
"You will be quiet!" The master of Donwell snapped, incensed.

  
He had not trusted himself to speak just yet, but it was hopeless. He could not— _would not_ —be calmed, no matter how hard he tried.

  
Already, his hands twitched and flexed into fists at his sides, despite himself.

  
”I pray I do not strike you" he confessed, words bathed in his ever-amounting anger, "for if I do, I will be tempted to never stop.”

  
How could this _**boy**_ stand before him and think that only a punishment would solve this matter?

  
Did he as well, not realized the severity of his actions?

  
Emma was a sheltered child—a girl who knew nothing of the ways of the world—but what excuse did this _William Hill_ have?

  
" _Sir!_...I-I was momentarily lost… _I_ …I never meant to—

  
" _You do not_ …" Mr. Knightley cut him off once more, uncharacteristically gritting his teeth rather harshly “ ** _ever_** touch Miss Woodhouse— _Of course_ you do not throw yourself at any innocent girl—but you **_especially_ **do not touch Miss Woodhouse!"

  
“Yes, Sir—

  
_**"Silence!"** _

  
The images of his ward under the boy taunted and persisted over and over in George's mind, and Emma’s shameless giggles, her gasps, wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —silence themselves.

  
There they were, engraved within all his thoughts, searing as they permanently mocked him!

  
"How _dare_ you?” He sneered, “Have you no respect for this house—nor have you any respect for me? I know you certainly have none for Miss Woodhouse!"

  
George attempted to keep his tightly balled fists held firm at his sides; so intense was his effort to not throw himself at the young man that his tensed body visibly shook in constrained anger.

  
“Sir, I do respect the abbey and all of its inhabitants, of course!" William defended, finally getting a word in edge wise.

  
He then looked up at last, but only in an effort to convey his sincerity.

  
“I may have been tempted—however my loyalties will always stand with you and your home—but sir please, you _must_ understand!”

  
The older man scoffed, indignant.

  
“ _Oh?"_ George’s humor was dangerous, “And, what exactly is it that I _must_ understand?”

  
"That I am but a man!” The boy countered desperately, as he begged of his superior, “I ask you who else could not have done the same, sir?!"

  
" _A gentleman!_ " was Mr. Knightley angry retort, clearly unimpressed with such an insulting and weak justification.

  
William’s laugh was bitter, "stable boys have no chance at being gentlemen, last I heard."

  
"What nonsense!" George spat in response, growing impossibly angrier with the present confrontational demeanor the boy had suddenly developed, “furthermore—gentleman or not— _she_ is but a _girl!_ "

  
“ _ **She**_ is a beautiful young **_woman!_** " Young William countered.

  
Now he too could not help but ball his own two hands into tight fists, in all his frustration.

  
He'd be dammed if he allowed himself to be alluded as the sole culprit in _Miss Woodhouse's_ little game.

  
"You cannot expect a different reaction form any man— _gentleman or not_ —when her manner towards me was so shamelessly wanton!"

  
_That was enough._

  
That was the most George Knightley was willing to ever allow, and before even he knew it, he had grabbed the boy by his shirt vest and pulled him up against him roughly.

  
“She. Is infinitely. Above your notice.” the dark-haired man spoke through gritted teeth, pointedly emphasizing each words with a harsh shake of the youth in his grip, "and despite your reckless actions, do you possibly believe that you can offer her anything, now that you have been caught, _hmm?_ " he asked.

  
Ignoring the abashed look in Williams's sad green eyes, Mr Knightley would not bother to wait for a reply.

  
" _ **You could not, boy!**_ ” he finished with a hiss, before shoving him unceremoniously away from his person in utter disgust.

  
The young man stumbled back in shock, tripping on his own feet and falling mercilessly on his haunches onto the straw covered grown.

  
"She is not ruined” he spat back, clumping up the straw and dirt before him onto his fists in anger and vexation.

  
William knew that the more he spoke the more he'd damn himself, but he would not back down now "…well at least not by me…”

  
George clenched his teeth, enraged.

  
He once more grabbed the boy and pulled him up to his feet, only to knock him back down again, his sure and strong fist landing effortlessly against the young man's jaw.

  
Mr. Knightley initially had not wanted to strike him at all, but it was a hopeless endeavor now.

  
"You _will_ watch your words!" he warned, as the boy was knocked down to the ground once more.

  
Defeated, William held his hand up to his face and dabbed the small bit of blood that appeared at the right corner of his mouth.

  
His jaw throbbed as he inspected the wetness on his fingers, while licking the wound at his lips with an angry and contemplative frown.

  
So this was Master Knightley's true temper, he inwardly scorned, _'gentleman indeed.’_

  
"You are within your rights, sir” he coughed, “it is true that I am nothing but a **_worthless_** stable boy—but you too must open your eyes to Miss Woodhouse!"

  
"That is no concern of _yours_ —

  
"It was _she_ who came looking for me" the young man reminded his superior, acidly "I do not go inside the manor, I have no need to, but it was she on her own, who lead me straight to her chamber—it was she who wanted to call attention to herself!"

  
"You _dared_ —

  
"It was _I_ who has been used and discarded, do not you forget it, sir!" This time it was William who would not allow George to speak.

  
He’d be heard even if it were the last thing he'd do.

  
"It was _my_ heart Miss Woodhouse toyed with—not the other way around—all so you could stop treating her like the fragile doll you seem to think her to be!" he reasoned, the distress evident in his voice.  
  
The boy's anguish could not go unnoticed by Mr. Knightley, not matter how much he wished he could be ignorant to it.

  
Looking down at the shallow breath and bleeding youth before him, the older man found himself slowly relaxing his tense posture.

  
This was exactly the reason why he did not want to escalate his anger any more than necessary in the first place.

  
This really was after all _just a boy_.

  
And although his heart could not be calmed, and his indignation could not be curved—in fact his very body and soul could not rest until he found some semblance of control in this nightmare of a complication—George forced himself to find any small restrain he could muster.

  
There before him was a lad of no more than nine and ten, he was sure.

  
And though the boy was perfectly capable of comprehending right from wrong, Mr. Knightley could not feign that he himself indeed was at most times also blindsided to Emma's charms.

  
If he, a man with thirty-one years of life's exposure on his back, could easily be taken in by the wiles of his much younger ward, then how could he expect any better from the boy before him?

  
He surveyed as the young man wiped his swollen eyes with his sleeve, in an effort to hide tears that threatened to fall.

  
Despite the brave front, he continued to tremble with what Mr. knightly could only imagine to be all sorts of emotions.

  
George let out a long and very weary sigh.

  
"You will tell not a soul about this" he commanded, removing his gaze away from the boy.

  
"I will make it my personal obligation that you find the proper employment elsewhere as far away from here as is possible, and you will be paid handsomely for your secrecy."

  
"I-I am to be sent away?" William asked, rushing to pull himself to his feet, his frown deepening as realization set in, “No! Sir, please! I promise not to—

  
"I have been kind" Mr. Knightley responded coldly, his own dark blue eyes not once looking back to meet the boy's emerald ones.

  
“Sir, I beg of you!" The young man cried.

  
Now he was willingly throwing himself at his master's feet, allowing to be dragged through dirt and the clumps of muddy hay he had in so many a time, recently, cursed for not being the stone and tile in the grand home of his most feverish dreams and fantasies.

  
“This…this is the only home I know…”

  
Forcibly removing himself from the youth's despairing hold, the older man turned away, still not once sparing him a single glance— _for how could he?_

  
"You will be expected to be ready for your removal tomorrow." He muttered, as slow calm steps carried his voice farther away still.

  
When William Hill finally looked up from the ground he kept wishing would just swallow him whole, Mr. Knightley had long gone.

  
There was nothing to keep his wretched sobs from leaving his body now.

  
**_Emma Woodhouse!_ **

  
He had followed her lovely smile, no matter where it went—and he knew she didn't love him, _nor would ever love him_ —but he had let himself be captivated by her charm nonetheless.

  
He cursed her from within his very being, banging his fists down on that still filthy and wretched stable floor.

  
_'I should have known!'_

His sobs, almost childlike in their sorrow, grew more desperate still.

_'I should have known you would be the end of me!'_


	3. Chapter 3

It was such a lovely afternoon, the sun was out and surrounded by large bright clouds as it had not rain for the whole of the week, and there was a very pleasing breeze flowing through the trees.

The gardens were especially nice, even the flowers seemed to gleam in the glory of such a perfect day; and that was exactly why Miss Taylor had chosen to spend all of her free time for the day in one of the white marbled benches outside, overlooking Donwell's vast grounds.

It was a simple pleasure for the governess as she was able to use this peaceful respite to draw up an adequate lesson plan for her dear Emma.

Anne Taylor sighed contentedly as she scribbled down on her paper yet another book title for her charge to read, listening in appreciation to the soft chirping of some nearby birds.

"It will not be debated, Mr. Larkins!" The placid governess found herself frowning ever so slightly, recognizing the familiar voice instantly.

"But sir, surely we have no need to replace young Hill—

"It has already been arranged, let's not argue about it any further!"

Miss Taylor's frown deepened, how very strange it was to hear such a crass tone from the master of the abbey she now called home.

Setting aside her papers and pen, the lady turned her attention to the direction of the two men striding nearby, noticing that the younger of the two was sporting an angry red face accompanied by a sour frown.

' _Whatever could be the matter?_ ' she wondered to herself, concern now completely marring her once ever so serene features.

"…Very well, I will do as you say" William Larkins responded then, bowing briefly in respect before taking notice of the governess watching them from not too far away, the old man averted his eyes "I shall go now and alert one of the coachmen for tomorrow's departure."

And with that he was gone, strolling away quickly in the opposite direction in an effort to complete his task, or as Miss Taylor would rather assume, to simply avoid the gentleman land owner any more grievance than he'd dare inflict.

Mr. Knightley nodded absentmindedly, now too catching the governess' steady yet concerned gaze.

Anne waved him over, allowing curiosity to consume her, despite her better judgment.

How long now had it been since they had promised each other to work diligently in supporting one another during this new path in which life had unexpectedly placed them?

Miss Taylor herself had never imagined that she would one day be a resident of Donwell, continuing her care for the two sweet girls she'd never believe would have had the horrible misfortune of loosing yet another parent—and while being under the service of a young gentleman she had only previously merely known as the beloved guest to the family, no less!

However despite the many trials and tribulations, it was a burden they two were more than willing to share in honor of their mutual love and respect for the Woodhouses.

So after all those years the young governess liked to think that she and Mr. Knightley had been able to establish a fond friendship in which they could confide their worries to one another with ease.

This she assured herself while observing the visibly tensed gentleman as he approached her bench rather cautiously, despite her offered greeting of a friendly smile.

"I am sorry to have disturbed your peace, Miss Taylor" George began, rather shamefaced.

"Oh it is no matter, I was merely planning Emma's next lessons" she replied, waving his apology away with a gentle shake of her head.

At the mentioning of her pupil, Miss Taylor couldn't help but notice Mr. Knightley visibly pale, more so than he already had been.

"Why Mr. Knightley is everything alright?" she asked, worried once more "Pardon my saying, but you look quite ill—shall I call on doctor Perry?"

"It is Emma" The somber man responded, accepting Anne's silent offer to take the seat next her "I…I do not know what to do with her…"

"Good heavens!" Miss Taylor cried in outrage, bringing her hand up to her chest in surprise.

”What ever could you possibly mean?"

George heaved a heavy sigh "I do not want to speak of it here" he admitted "however I have seen to it with the best of my abilities, at least that I can say."

"You frighten me, Mr. Knightley—what has happened to my Emma!"

The gentleman laughed humorlessly "Oh she is quite well, do not you worry."

Miss Taylor let out the breath she had been holding at the thought of her beloved student being in any peril, and suddenly found herself chuckling despite her concern.

"Well what could she have possibly done now, that would warrant such a disagreeable reaction from you?" she asked "I dare say Mr. Knightley, you look as if our Emma has run off to Gretna Green with the son of a butcher"

"Not the butcher's son, I'm afraid it is stable boys who are more to her liking"

The governess now truly could not stop herself from laughing daintily at her employer's ever growing melancholic expression, "Oh Mr. Knightley, whatever Emma has done, at least that is not something we will ever have to worry about" she assured, voice coated in amusement.

But the grave look the gentleman suddenly gave her halted any of her further mirth.

She shook her head in disbelief.

“No”, Miss Taylor stated confidently, what a cruel trick Mr. Knightley was playing on her!

George however offered no other response than that of turning his dark blue eyes away from her in an act of resigned forbearance.

"It certainly cannot be anything remotely like that, tell me it is not—this is Emma we are speaking of!" She exclaimed, still assertive of her justification.

Mr. Knightley stood up then, and Anne could now very well see that he was clearly distressed.

His eyes were bloodshot, and it looked as if he was battling a headache that was threatening to split his head in two.

"It is not my wish to upset you, Miss Taylor, nor do I think it was of Emma's design either—just know that she is still very safe, and nothing of such intense nature was able to occur, thankfully"

The governess's deep brown eyes grew wide, and she too rose up from her seat "B-but… you mean to say that there has really been such a scandal—tell me there has not, I beg of you!”, she pleaded.

George shook his head "I am assuring you now, there will be no such scandal" he replied with certainty, offering her his hand so that he could lead the now tormented lady back to her seat, in an effort to calm her.

But Miss Taylor was past anguished now, she could not fathom anything the gentleman before her was telling her, it was as if he was speaking in riddles, horrible, despairing riddles of which offered only clues that painted the worst possible scenarios in her mind.

' _When had Emma ever even had the smallest most remote interest in a certain boy—or in any boy for that matter!_ '

The Emma Woodhouse she knew would never set her looks so below her— _a stable boy_ —for the girl who prided herself with having the honor and right to such an illustrious social standing?

' _Mr. Knightley must be mistaken, she would never throw it all away for some boy…_ '

But this was George Knightley after all, he would never speak of something so severe unless he had the out most certainty that it was so, she reason sorrowfully.

And then as if suddenly coming to some sort of realization, the dark haired lady gasped.

"Tell me this has nothing to do with the person you spoke of with Mr. Larkins just a moment ago!" She made haste to asked of her employer, who continued standing over her as he observed her reaction with worried eyes.

Mr. Knightley found himself looking away from her once more, choosing to focus his attention on the nearby trees instead.

Such a beautiful day as this he would have much rather preferred spending atop of his horse, visiting his tenants…and now he couldn't even think of any horse at all without feeling his anger rising.

"We will speak of it more at a better time" he finally replied, after a quiet moment.

The governess frowned, unsatisfied.

"Indeed I have no semblance as to how to go about it at all at the moment…nor do I understand how in the end, despite everything, she still very much manages to get her way" George continued to say, letting out a shaky yet amused chuckle, for the humor of it all could not escape even him.

Calming her breathing, Miss Taylor prompted her student's guardian to continue, through the offering of a thoroughly perplexed expression.

“…You must help me plan for Emma's coming out celebration…”

Anne Taylor's chestnut colored eyes grew even larger in surprise "W-what? Pardon what— _well finally_ —I mean…it is wonderful that you have decided to do so—but I am so very confused—i-is she no longer…Am I correct to assume that Emma has not been ruined after all?"

For what must have been the one hundredth time that day, George Knightley sighed in exasperation, he shook his head in the negative "Come…" he spoke, helping her stand to her feet again, offering the young governess his arm so that he may lead her back to the manor.

"We must be discreet, but I will tell you everything inside Donwell."

...

Emma sighed softly as she stared at her reflection through the expensive gold trimmed mirror atop of her vanity table, whilst her lady's maid attempted to dress her pretty, long blonde locks.

"Shall I braid your hair, Miss Woodhouse?"

The young girl knitted her thin eyebrows together as she continued to observe herself absentmindedly.

"Hmm?" she mumbled at the older girl, as if in a trance.

"Would the young mistress want her hair braided?" came the maid's soft reply in a soothing slight French accent, as she now massaged the top of Emma's golden hair with her pale lithe fingers.

"No, like this is fine…thank you, Sophie…”

Her maid smiled, she grabbed an intricate silver comb from on top of the fine wooden table before proceeding to gently use it to smoothen the girl's hair.

"Very well, Miss."

Emma suddenly frowned, she had been watching carefully as the other girl had parted her hair away from the left side of her neck when she spotted it.

On the upper part, right before her jawbone began, there was an angry red welt marring her creamy ivory skin.

She gasped.

How did _that_ ever get _there?_

"Oh Miss Woodhouse, I am most sorry" the maid was quick to apologize, stopping her task immediately.

"Was I pulling too hard?" she asked, looking down at the mirror to find her mistress's worried hazel eyes staring back up at her.

“No!" Emma responded rather shocked, quickly bringing her hand up to her neck in an effort to cover the small, lightly bruised, patch of skin.

The French girl raised her dark eyebrows in confusion, catching the action, but knowing better than to pry.

Once again she continued her combing duties, wondering to herself how it was that the young Miss Woodhouse, of whom was still considered only but a child in the eyes of her guardian, had come about getting a mark so unbefitting as the one she was now trying ever so hard to hide.

She had found it quite strange already, when the girl was not as chatty as her usual self.

Emma had yet to bring her hand back down and away from her neck, when the maid caught her frightened gaze through her reflection once again.

The girl’s distress was evident, painted plainly in her frightened eyes, and marring her usual confident demeanor.

It was becoming increasingly difficult not to take pity.

"It has been quite terrible these days, not a soul can escape the wretched flies” Sophie suddenly found herself commenting, "those horrible pests have been biting everyone, I see that Miss Woodhouse too has not been safe"

The blonde girl's pale hazel eyes grew wider still, and she turned around to look up at her maid with a surprised smile, "I hope it has not been too horrible for you, Sophie" she responded gratefully.

In truth, summer had long past, and sometime soon the air would turn chill with the changing of season, and so mosquitoes were not so much an issue for anyone, even out in the countryside.

Of this, Emma was very well aware.

Her smile widened, ”I for one hope to never get _bitten_ again"

The older girl laughed, amused at the new light in her mistress's eyes.

“That is very good to hear, Miss"

Emma grinned and turned back to stare at the mirror while Sophie continued her combing, now she finally allowed herself to lower her hand away from her bruised neck, she would not forget the young woman's kindness any time soon!

"Sophie?" She called after a few more minutes had passed.

“Yes, Miss Woodhouse?”

"Have you ever been in love?" Emma questioned, playing with an elegant perfume filled glass bottle her sister Isabella had bought her from her last trip to Bath.

Although the bottle itself was beautiful, Mr. Knightley had once said that the fragrant water inside was much too strong and mature for her, and despite wearing it the whole week after it arrived, the blonde girl had never used it even once more since he had mentioned the fact.

"In love you ask, Miss Woodhouse?" her lady's maid responded, placing the comb back down besides her on the vanity table.

"Yes, for I always hear that a girl's most ardent want is to be married" the blonde mentioned curiously "is that a wish of yours?"

"I suppose that can be true" Sophie replied thoughtfully, now grabbing the satin ribbon her mistress had previously chosen upon her arrival to the dressing room, “ _Well_ …as you have asked…I have been very fortunate to have found someone who I love very dearly, and who I hope says the same about me"

"You have?"

The young woman blushed prettily, to Emma's amusement, "I believe so" she confessed.

The younger girl's bright eyes shinned mischievously "Oh, and who is this man who has captivated you so?", she inquired, waving away the maid's effort to place the ribbon on her hair "do I know him?"

Sophie laughed, "Unless you have been to my hometown in France, you have not" she informed the anxious Emma, trying once more to place the ribbon without success.

"I suppose not…" the blonde pouted, turning her back to the maid once again and allowing her to style her hair properly.

While Sophie continued to pamper her, Emma listened with amp attention to the story of how she and Armand were childhood friends, and how years later despite her moving to England for need of employment, he had asked her younger brother for the details of her occupational arrangements.

"He has been writing to me ever since" she explained, lowering her voice to a soft whisper "under the guise of a long lost cousin--Viviane Lefaux" she giggled.

"How very exciting!" her mistress proclaimed, bringing her small hand up to her lips in astonishment, "To be so daring, I wonder if such is really the way of love?"

"I am a strong believer that nothing, Miss Woodhouse, should ever interfere with love" the maid replied, her smile was so intoxicating that even Emma found herself grinning as well.

"How does it feel then, to be in love?" She wondered out loud, surprised with her own question, for she had never once thought of it in that way before.

She watched as the maid paused in thought for a second, before continuing to sort through some pearls inside one of the intricate wooden jewelry boxes.

”Oh Miss Woodhouse, it is quite possibly the most difficult feeling to explain—other than I suppose, saying it feel's wonderful…in fact, sometimes _too_ wonderful" Sophie finally replied.

The older girl's smile faltered however when she turned to look back at her Mistress, who was once more looking away from her, and was now quietly observing something in her hands.

"Miss Woodhouse?" she called.

Emma frowned while turning a small wilting cornflower in between her fingers; its vibrant blue color had dulled considerably since William Hill had picked it for her not merely three days ago.

He had been very kind, and although she knew not to encourage such behaviors, she had not been able to bring herself to refuse it.

All it ever served however was to enhance her sins, and help trick the boy in the worst possible manner, not caring in the very least the consequences it might bring to either of them.

This, she realized, was the farthest thing from love.

Scrunching her nose distastefully, the blonde girl couldn't help but huff indignantly; she did not even like cornflowers in the very least, so why in the world would she ever even keep such a thing!

Thrusting the flower away from her in a very un-lady like manner, Emma pointedly ignored the shocked look Sophie gave her, as the dark haired maid rushed to retrieve it.

"I do not think I will ever fall in love" she confessed, "I have never felt in such a way—I fear it is impossible for me"

"That is because you are still very young, Miss Woodhouse" Sophie replied with a laugh, cradling close to her heart the poor drooping plant she had managed to save.

Emma offered another indignant huff "I am not so very young”, she reminded the darker haired young woman, crossing her arms in annoyance "it is ever so tiring that everyone treats me as a child."

"The young mistress is right, of course!" her maid was quick to assure, with another one of her melodic laughs, "You are not a child, but you are still quite young—indeed there is no hurry for you to find love, or marry"

Satisfied, the young mistress nodded.

"But the Cole's oldest daughter married when she was around my age now" she countered, rolling her eyes ever so slightly as she watched Sophie place her discarded flower gently besides her.

“Yes, but Miss Woodhouse, you are not the Cole's daughter" the maid reminded, returning her attention back to the pearls.

"Not just anyone will do for you—you are quite lucky, a young lady like you has a whole different world of options to pick from the best and richest of men" she added "and all the time you could ever wish for to make your choice"

"Is it really so different?" Emma questioned, intrigued.

The only marriage she had ever really been privy to was that of her sister and her brother in law John.

Isabella herself had not married quite so young as the former Miss Cole, though even long before she had turned but twenty, Emma had been able to tell how large her sister's admiration truly ran for Mr. Knightley's younger brother.

Sophie nodded vehemently "Why of course”, she responded, now fastening the beautiful jewel around the blonde girl's thin neck, "many young girls must hurry and marry the best offer they can receive, if they ever hope to live satisfying lives"

"But what if I cannot love any man, even if he is the most amiable and the best suited?”, the young girl complained, adjusting her pearls properly, "What if I do not want to marry at all?"

"Ah but therein lies the difference!" her maid was quick to counter, “You, Miss Woodhouse, shall always be rich regardless" she assured, sighing longingly.

"You have no need to marry if you truly do not want to—you may choose to be a rich spinster instead, and those are of the best kind"

Emma pondered at the idea for a moment, biting her lips thoughtfully "But what of Miss Bates?" she asked, an image of the garrulous lady popping in her head, "She is a spinster, and a silly woman—I do not want to end up like her"

"Miss Bates is not rich, Miss Woodhouse" Sophie reminded her "and as I have said, you are but only six and ten—still so young, and very handsome! A young lady such as you will never have any trouble finding a suitable husband"

Still uncertain of whatever path she would one day choose for herself, Emma merely nodded.

She supposed things such as these were better left to the doings of fate…however despite how much she strongly believed there would never be a man whom she could come to love as much as Sophie seemed to care for her Armand.

"Mr. Knightley, himself, has never married" the blonde suddenly pointed out, as if realizing that her present wish was not so much of an abnormality, "perhaps I will be like him" she reasoned.

Her lady's maid, who at being satisfied with her young mistress current appearance had now proceeded to prepare the dress that Emma would eventually wear for the evening's dinner, looked up from her work to shake her head in amusement at the comment.

"Mr. Knightley is still youthful and handsome" she responded "It would not be so very surprising at all if he were to find a bride eventually, especially with such a grand fortune to recommend him"

Emma made a face, "I cannot see Mr. Knightley being in love" she admitted "I am sure he will remain a confirmed bachelor forever."

The young girl tried her best to be ladylike and not snicker, but just the mere thought of her guardian proclaiming his love for any woman made her want to laugh hysterically.

"The lord works in mysterious ways, Miss Woodhouse" Sophie countered, bringing her attention back to the beautiful salmon colored muslin dress, "one can never be too sure of such things."

Emma's frown deepened, "…Mr. Knightley cannot not marry!" she exclaimed, annoyance ringing clear in her voice,”Our little nephew Henry is to inherit, he has said so himself!”

Why, Mr. Knightley marrying was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard!

Who would even dare intrude upon this happy home and covet what rightfully belonged to little Henry?

No, Emma was certain that her guardian would never do such a silly thing!

She could just picture a loathsome, obnoxious woman marching into Donwell, dragging a love sick Mr. Knightley behind her as she'd voice her plans to change up every little corner of the abbey with her supposed refined tastes and her superiority.

Nothing would do! All but that of the late former Mrs. Knightley's old jewels and fabrics would go, of course.

Even she herself would certainly be an unsightly sore, and how long after would the witch beg her guardian to send her away to some boarding school in god knows where—or worse! Send her off to live with John!

Emma brought her hands up to her face in order to rub her now reddening checks in an effort to cover up her exasperation.

She loved her older sister with all her heart and soul, and her nephews were her world, but she would even rather be married than to share a home with that nagging brother in law of hers!

The young girl visibly shivered at the thought.

On the other side of the room, not too far away, Sophie proceeded to work quietly in an effort to continue to hide her amused smile, or the laugh that was threatening spill out from her should she continue to watch the different array of expressions her young mistress kept revealing after the strong proclamation from her last statement.

If the French young woman hadn't known any better, she would have assumed that Miss Woodhouse looked to be quite _defensive_ indeed at the very notion that her Mr. Knightley should ever be in want of a wife!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these chapters, including the ones to come, have all been written within months and even years from one another, and I think whoever has stayed to read this story will take notice from here on out, even with all my current editing. Chapters one and two were written such a long time ago, and could use a lot more work, but I decided to keep them pretty faithful to their initial voice, as I don't want to change up the prose so much.
> 
> Next chapter should be an improvement from this one. I find chapter four to have a much better flow as I grew into my writing. (Of course, there's a lot more growth to be done even now, for sure). Chapter five was written within this month however, So I guess we'll see if I've really improved or not...also it's pretty massive.
> 
> Anyway, for anyone who is actually reading this story, I hope you like it so far and we'll meet again next time :)


	4. Chapter 4

" _Emma_ "

The sixteen year old not so proud—well at least at the very moment—owner of the name being called, borrowed deeper into her fine rosewood wardrobe as her small delicate hands pressed one of her thick winter coats closer against her face in a shameless effort to hide herself.

" _Emma!_ "

Teeth bit into quaking cardinal lips as the dreaded voice neared her chamber door, and as her eyes closed in supplication, the blonde girl stifled a desperate moan, hoping with all her might that one look around the seemingly empty room would be enough to fool her pursuer.

"Emma Woodhouse, do you not hear me calling?" her governess's complaint was now clear as day—a fine indication of her arrival—as it was heavily emphasized by the sound of doors bursting open with more force than the young girl had ever heard her make.

"…Emma?"

This time the guilty party ran the risk of suffocation lest she allowed the sudden urge to giggle at the sound of Miss Taylor's bemusement, give away the perimeter of her almost flawless self-made alcove of protection.

_Almost._

Before Emma even had time to clutch yet another coat to better cover her person, the doors to her armoire were ripped open to reveal the exasperated face of one unamused dark haired governess.

The girl's nervous laugh did nothing to dissipate the anger from the chestnut colored orbs looking down pointedly at her.

"My dear, must you always keep insisting on hiding in the very same place each time?" the older woman questioned flatly.

Her pupil's hopeful demeanor crumbled as thin shoulder's drooped in defeat, today would not be a day she could easily worm her way out of her dear Miss Taylor's rare show of vexation, this she could already tell.

Another nervous laugh, "Here I am, Miss Taylor" the younger finally replied trying to smile nonetheless—anything was worth the shot at this point after all—"Is something the matter?"

"Oh Emma, you know exactly what the matter is!" her governess panted, "I have been told of-of what has transpired here in this very room—and I must say shock is nearly not enough to express what I am feeling!”  
Emma inhaled softly.

Of course Mr. Knightley would have disclosed to Miss Taylor the details of her shameful behavior with William, she reasoned with a pout.

_'Now I shall never live it down for the rest of my natural life'_

At the continued look of thinly veiled horror coated in perplexity from the older woman, the blonde finally lowered her brilliant eyes in shame.

"You have been told…"

"Of course I have been told, Emma!" Miss Taylor's voice sounded about ready to tremble with despair, "and we must forever be obliged to Mr. Knightley for intervening when he did—Oh my Emma, what ever were you thinking!"

"I cannot say that I was thinking!" the young girl admitted, turning away from her dearest of confidants, even as an already forgiving hand extended towards her in the hopes of coasting her out of the poorly chosen hiding place, "h-how could I have?"

Noting the pitiful tone in the other's voice, there was a short pause, before Miss Taylor heaved a small sigh.

"You cannot stay in here forever, my love" the governess reasoned, attempting to take hold of her pupil's hand once more.

"We can't possibly know that unless I try"

However the older woman's will was much greater than her own, and before she knew it Emma was assisted in climbing out of the makeshift wooden fortress not a minute later.

Miss Taylor petted her cheeks with both her hands, and though her pupil's gaze was still averted, she was able to tell from the puffiness of her eyes that hiding was not all that was done inside the wardrobe.

"My dear child, why did you not come to me?" she asked, taking a step closer to the girl in an effort to convey her truest sincerity, "We could have spoken of it and addressed your frustrations, I myself would have proposed your wishes to Mr. Knightly"

"It cannot be said that I have not!" Emma complained, pulling away from the older woman before turning her back to her in indignation, more tears welling in her eyes.

"How long have I expressed a want to be treated in accordance to my age, Miss Taylor— _nobody_ has listened until now!"

Tears of her own trailed down the young governess's eyes, she wouldn't even dare pretend that her charge's pain did not affect her.

This was after all the little girl she had taken under her wing and raised from the age of four, and though she knew she could never presume Emma to see her as such a figure, Miss Taylor could not help the maternal love she felt for the girl swelling inside her heart.

It was such a strong everlasting kind of emotion, that even Emma herself could feel it radiating from the woman despite her efforts in pushing her away.

Therefore the young girl couldn't help but allow her reliable Miss Taylor's arms to pull her back around as warm and assuring hands enclosed over her own cold and shaky ones.

"I too have been unfair to you, my precious girl, I did not want to cause poor Mr. Knightley any further inconvenience, of that I am guilty" The governess revealed sorrowfully, before allowing her dark eyebrows to fall in disappointment, "but this was not the way to do it, this was very dangerous indeed!"

"I was drowning in desperation!"

_Well_ , the exasperation in her charge's voice was _certainly_ abundantly clear.

"So desperate you are to outgrow us?" a watery laugh attempted to mask Miss Taylor's sob, she was now clutching her beloved student to her chest in a desperate embrace.

"Cannot you see for yourself that it is not easy to watch our little Emma grow more and more each day?" she admitted.

After all, she could understand the young girl's frustrations, but she too favored her guardian's sentiments.

It was not so easy to see such a sweet, happy, and playful child who's dependency you have come to expect and cherish, slowly outgrow such sentiments, until one fateful day all that would be left of such a wonderful relationship would be nothing but fond memories to recall for pleasant comfort in old age.

Emma's blunder was truly inexcusable and selfish, but to say that both her and Mr. Knightley's love and expectation for her had not become quite selfish as well, would be just as unsound.

This, Anne Taylor forced herself to realize as she continued to soothe the crying youth in her arms, was something that needed great consideration after all.

Quick steps were suddenly heard, followed by a surprised gasp as a chambermaid dropped the linens she carried, seconds before crossing the doorway.

The governess wasted no time in waving her away gently.

The quick-witted maid nodded in understanding, and within seconds, cleared the floor of the mess before leaving them to their privacy once more as she soundlessly shut the doors behind her.

Anne sighed softly, silently chastising herself for leaving those wretched doors open in the first place.

"I am sorry to make you cry, Miss Taylor" Emma's voice was soft as it croaked from around the older woman's shoulder, promptly garnering her full attention back to the girl in her arms, "if I have really given you pain, then I know I cannot forgive myself"

A small chuckle was heard from the governess "you silly little thing…" she sniffed, sighing once more, "growth cannot occur where forgiveness is not planted"

And very soon after the two were sobbing once more, both in comfort and pain, while Emma borrowed deeper into her motherly embrace.

It was for the first time since the incident that the youngest Woodhouse was able to really cry with the full guilt of that which she had done.

It was not that she did not mean her tears then when Mr. Knightley had discovered her, she had been ashamed from the very beginning, but there was just something about the gentle Miss Taylor that always brought out the better part of her.

Perhaps it was her honest kindness, or her relentless care—maybe it was just her unwavering support for her no matter what—but what Emma was very sure of was that she owed her governess much more than she truly deserved.

Realizing now that today she could have very easily lost the comfort of these warm arms around her, made her cry even harder.

That she could have lost the support of her family, that she could have tarnished all of their illustrious reputation without a care in the world, made her want to lock herself up in her rooms to never again emerge.

"You may cry to your heart's content tonight" Miss Taylor assured her, ignoring her own blotchy tear stained face, "come tomorrow however, you must be the young lady you so claim to be, and this guilt and pain, you must turn it into a lesson you can overcome"

Emma nodded her understanding, vowing to take those words to heart, but for now she would allow herself to cry.

It was not a pleasant scene, nor was it a heartwarming one, but it was a kind of bitter sweetness that was necessary if any semblance of normality would ever hope to be recovered between them after this nightmare of a day would be over.

And for the first time in a very long while, the young woman who wished so feverishly to be regarded as all grown up, wanted nothing more than to be small enough to hide behind the protection of those understanding arms for just a little longer.

Even when Anne lead her towards the bed to sit, Emma still would not let go, almost as if she were afraid that the older woman would disappear the second she did.

Her governess saw no other option but to oblige and sat besides her, adjusting and helping the distraught girl who had then chosen to lie down with her blonde head in the older lady's lap.

Emma happily welcomed the soft fingers that came down to stroke through her hair soothingly.

Just like when she was a little girl.

"Miss Taylor…"

" _Hmm_?"

"Will I ever be forgiven?"

Her voice was still soft, and if the dark haired woman hadn't known any better she would have thought that the always self-assuring and confident Emma Woodhouse sounded almost… _afraid_.

"Dear girl, I have already forgiven you"

"I know that I do not deserve it…” her charge expressed, closing her watery eyes and easing her pretty features into a look of serenity, "but I cannot lie, it is so very alleviating to hear you say it"

"I know"

"...Will Mr. Knightley ever come to forgive me as well...?"

Miss Taylor allowed the breath she had held at hearing the question, fall steadily.

She knew that when it came to the blonde girl who was still snuggling in her lap, anything she would do would receive her willing forgiveness almost instantly, even to her better knowledge, the governess was forced to accept that the soft spot she had always held for the youngest Woodhouse sister would forever remain so.

Her employer however, treasure Emma as much as she knew he did, would certainly not be so easy to win over this time around.

The image of his bewildered and hurt eyes when she saw them just that afternoon was still very much engraved in her memory.

As if his ward's utterly unbecoming actions positively hunted him, and would continue to do so for quite some time.

Unforgiving, Anne Taylor knew he was not, but she had a feeling Mr. Knightley would not soon forget this day for a very long time.

"…Miss Taylor?"

"...I think..." The governess finally responded, looking down to meet the deep and inquisitive eyes watching her closely, "that you must work very hard from now on to prove yourself to him, to show him that you have not taken for granted all that he has done for you, and that this silly tantrum will never become you again…and with time…you will cure him of this pain"

Emma's eyes grew wetter once more, and she bit her lip.

"I believe he too has already forgiven you, but you must wait for Mr. Knightley to come to terms on his own accord. You must have given him quite the fright today—it will be your turn now to be the patient and comprehensive party"

"I suppose that's fair"

_'You suppose?'_ Miss Taylor bit the inside of her cheek as to not show her amusement, leave it to her pupil to retain that which made her so very Emma, even at a time such as this.

"Come, let us get you ready for dinner, the least we want is to make Mr. Knightley any more cross by forcing him to wait longer than he should this evening" she replied instead, attempting to lift her troublemaker up from the comfortable position she would not relent, much to no avail.

The table would be ready in less than forty minutes and neither herself nor Emma had prepared.

"Go now, off to Sophie!"

"Must I?" the blonde complained, finally sitting up so that her governess could stand.

At her governess's knowing look, Emma smiled complacently.

"You _know_ Miss Taylor, I had a very large luncheon just a few hours ago... _perhaps_...it would suit me to do without dinner...?"

"You cannot hope to assume avoidance can go on forever" Miss Taylor eyed her curiously and then chuckled, "better to get it over with as soon as is possible"

"But Mr. Knightley—

"Would never begrudge you sustenance" with a pointed look, the now unamused governess gestured to the doors, "there is a handsome dress waiting for you, Miss Woodhouse--do give it the justice it deserves"

"Oh very well…” Emma finally acquiesced with a petulant pout, "but only because one _must_ look their best, even when forced to meet their doom" she grumbled, curtsying briefly as she all but stomped away, leaving a huffing Anne Taylor in her wake.

The dark haired woman shook her head with another melodic chuckle as she straightened the delicate fabric of her own dress.

_'Emma Woodhouse, indeed!'_

  
...

Donwell, although very large with its extensive wings and numerous rooms, did not harbor pin quiet halls.

Naturally there were more solitary areas than lively ones, but as Emma descended the grand main staircase into the main room of which passage led straight to the formal dining area, she could not help but notice that the general atmosphere in the air was rather much more hushed than usual.

Even sweet and talkative Sophie did not speak more than five words while helping her into her evening dress a little while ago.

Believing it perhaps might have been due to a personal matter, the young mistress had not pried and instead allowed her to work in comfortable quietude, but now that she walked past yet another somber footman, Emma could not help but wish she had asked her usually lively attendant if anything was the matter after all.

"Ah good, you're ready" Miss Taylor greeted once the puzzled girl had reached her destination.

She ignored her governess's hands as they came up to adjust the trimmings of her dress and rearrange the cascading blonde curls over her shoulder, "Does it not feel a bit strange to you?" she focused on asking instead.

"Strange?" the dark haired woman questioned lightly, offering her elbow so that her charge could lead them into the dining hall.

Emma obliged her and took a step forward, "The atmosphere—I can't help but feel _unsettled_ "

"It must be the storm raging in your heart" Miss Taylor reasoned, bringing her left hand to pat the younger girl in assurance "all is well, do not fret."

Emma wanted to protest, she knew that whatever _it_ was, it was beyond that of her own feelings, but they were approaching the table now, so she bit her tongue in resignation instead.

For all her worries about how she would be able to face Mr. Knightley after all that had happened, the Woodhouse girl was rather surprised and quite relieved to find her guardian's seat completely empty.

"Oh?" she heard Miss Taylor wonder out loud, "It seems we will be dining on our own after all"

Emma nodded, fixing her gaze on her plate.

The place at the head of the table was left completely bare, not a utensil in sight, and suddenly she couldn't help the guilt tightening in her chest.

Was Mr. Knightley truly so angry and disappointed that he would rather forgo eating than see her wretched face?

"Master has asked me to beg forgiveness in his place, there was a matter that needed his attention and therefore he is not able to attend this evening's meal", the head footman in charge of overseeing all matters of the table, announced as he filled Emma's goblet with thin beer.

The governess nodded from across her, and Emma could not help but notice the almost imperceptible glance the older woman gave her before looking away just as quickly.

"Very well" Miss Taylor smiled, "let us say grace quickly then, my dear, for though it is a shame that Mr. Knightley is not present, I can already see cook has outdone herself!"

Emma nodded and brought her hands together absentmindedly; she hardly recalled her short prayer however, due to the strange sense of forbearance she could not help but feel overcome her.

Much of dinner was spent as such, and as the hour came to an end, the young lady had hardly touched anything in her plate, despite of the grand selection that customarily graced Donwell's table, and though her appetite was usually very good, Mr. Knightley's ward had become so preoccupied with his absence and what it entailed that she could think of little else.

And before Miss Taylor was given the chance to protest her lack of nourishment, her pupil had suddenly risen from her seat and excused herself with all the grace befitting her station.

The governess would have protested with more effort had it not been for the sickly look to her poor Emma's complexion, and the uncharacteristic weary stare of her eyes.

"Very well, go then and rest"

Emma's curtsy was swift, and at the blink of an eye she was already crossing the threshold.

Her steps were quick and determined, her pace as rushed as the rapid drumming heart threatening to burst from its enclosure deep inside her chest.

And then her legs stopped, coming to a sudden halt only after approaching a very large and familiar handsome door.

Taking a deep breath, the girl lifted a pale hand to knock upon it several times.

_No answer._

Looking around her and finding no prying eyes to chastise her, Emma grasped the intricate metal handle before pulling it open ever so slowly.

"Mr. Knightley?" she called with a deathly silent whisper.

Her effort was rewarded with yet another absence of answer.

Nodding with determination for a boost of courage, the pale hand grasping the handle pushed forward, allowing its owner a clear view of the inside of the room.

Just as she had thought, it was empty.

Emma promptly stepped into the chamber and used the weight of her body to shut the door behind her, allowing her eyes to observe the spacious area in its entirety.

She scrunched her nose.

It was still very masculine and rather boring, just as it had always been.

Taking a few more steps she neared the grand mahogany desk by the center, though very neat indeed, there were a few letters and parchments recklessly left scattered on it's surface, and for a brief moment Emma contemplated reading them.

_Just a very brief moment though!_

For she was on a mission, and there was little to no time to waste, and _honestly_ she was willing to wager that half of it was from John, and the other half had to do with whatever it was that magistrates had to worry about anyway.

Reaching inside her dress, she pulled out a small folded letter, addressed to the owner of the study, and placed it on top of the minuscule pile of papers.

It was Emma's intention to hand it to Mr. Knightley personally, after dinner, but now she was left no other choice.

Though perhaps this was for the better after all, she reasoned, for the ward had no idea how she could have faced her guardian before saying all that she wished to say, clarify all that she hoped to clarify, and apologize in a most sincere and befitting way.

None of the words she would have wanted to say would have ever been expressed in person with the same strength of intention, or at least in a way in which it would have given them justice.

No! In paper she could be as honest and as remorseful as she truly felt, without letting pride get in the way.

She only hoped that Mr. Knightley would even bother to read it, not that she'd begrudge him if he chose not to.

Though knowing him, he would certainly be happy she even took the time to write anything at all, what with all the ways the gentleman endlessly berated her about her studies, or lack there of.

Yes, Emma grinned, this method would work out swimmingly!

Patting her beloved letter with one last look to the desk before heading out, the girl still could not help but find herself slowly frowning.

With a roll of her eyes she turned her attention back to the slight mess, and ever so discretely, set about organizing it into a much neater pile, making sure that her own letter was still sitting promptly at the very top.

Nodding to herself in satisfaction, the blonde turned around once more and headed straight for the door.

Thin light eyebrows twitched suddenly, and then she stopped in her tracks again.

Biting her blossom lips thoughtfully, she ran back to the desk, quickly making use of the quilted pen already resting on the gold ink-pot at the right hand side of it, hastily she opened the first drawer to find paper, any paper, but was unsuccessful, and with a huff was forced to grab her letter once again.

Swiftly flipping it around, she dipped the quilt and with little thought scribbled some short words on the blank expanse of space available.

_Finally_ completely and utterly triumphant, Emma Woodhouse ignored the heat in her cheeks as she returned the pen back in its place.

She walked back to the door, yet again, and this time she opened it ever so slightly to peer outside.

Content at seeing still not a single soul around, she stepped out into the corridor and closed it behind her once more.

Humming to herself softly, she headed with an air of merriment towards the end of the hall, wondering briefly if it were possible to charm cook into preparing her a quick supper without alerting Miss Taylor.

Meanwhile…

Inside the somewhat abandoned study—well for the night at least—atop the now very neat desk, sat the elegantly written note, patiently waiting for its owner:

_This most unworthy Emma hates it very much when Mr. Knightley misses dinner_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? Comments/or constructive criticism are definitely not obligatory, but they sure are welcomed! :)


	5. Chapter 5

It was bright, exceedingly so, but not yet hot, as the cheerful colors of spring danced in her vision.

  
"Oh Emma, what a lovely idea you've had!" Miss Taylor's kind voice interrupted her daydreaming, before sighing contentedly besides her, "This charming little picnic is exactly what the day calls for"

  
They both shared a grin as the governess proceeded to hand Isabella, sitting just across from them, a little handsome plate chuck full of delectable strawberries freshly plucked and prepared from the finest beds Donwell had to offer.

  
"Indeed" John, who laid contentedly next to her sister, hummed his agreement as he too reach forward to steal not one but several from his dear doting wife, who obliged with a smile so sweet it rivaled the very essence of the fruit kissing his lips.

  
Emma's grin widened.

  
Holding the weight of her upper body with her two thin arms, she pushed herself back, eyes closing and her face looking up to the vast heavens, basking in the glory of the mid morning sun.

  
It was a rather brilliant idea, wasn't it?

  
Surely this was what life was all about, being out in celebration of a most perfect day, enjoying the beauty of god's green earth, feeling the gentle breeze of a soft wind as it glides through the tall trees, while filling their bellies with mounds of scrumptious treats of which only their wonderful cook could arrange.

  
Yes, this was all that mattered.

  
"George, do be careful!" her sister called out, though laughter bubbled in her voice as she waved her brother-in-law over, smiling at the small boy squealing merrily as he flew like a little bird in his arms.

  
"Henry will be getting rather fuzzy soon, it's almost time for his nap" She insisted, as the lull of Mr. Knightley's chuckles greeted them as he approached ever so steadily.

  
Emma could hear the sound of gravel and grass under his boots with each second of proximity, and her smile widened even more so when she felt his familiar palm patting the top of her head ever so gently.

  
"You've not eaten a thing" he noted, sitting himself several feet away on the large and soft blanket housing their most agreeable little party, "if I recall correctly, it was you who was hungriest of all, Emma"

  
The girl opened her eyes at last and offered him her very best smile, "Now I am much too content to eat", she admitted.

  
"Ah" Mr. Knightley nodded, taking advantage of a strawberry himself, plopping it in it's entirety into his waiting mouth rather effortlessly, "No better a nourishment than joy, I always say."

  
Emma scoffed at the teasing in his words, but her lips forcibly twitched in amusement.

  
Today was too perfect of day, even for his good-humored baiting.

  
The gentle rays of the sun she had been bathing in with such enjoyment only moments past, cast a radiant halo around his form in a rather handsome manner, succeeding in almost—almost taking her breath away.

  
She was just about to remark on the very blessing, in hopes of offering a tease or two of her own when a gentle, yet unexpected buzzing began to fill the air.

  
Like, the very sound of actual honeybees.

  
Perplexed, Emma looked up and around her, determined to scout the little beasts, only to find that her eyes were met with the calm field before her, same as it always was, green and luscious, and without a singular bee in sight.

  
How very strange?

  
She was certain their sound was increasing by the minute.

  
Emma vaguely heard Miss Taylor calling for her, and could almost feel Mr. Knightley patting her hand for attention, but now she could not turn away from the ever-insistent noise.

  
For it was certainly quite safe to call it a noise, and a rather exasperating one at that.

  
Was she the only one who could hear it?

  
_**Buzzzzzzz** _

  
_**Buzzz** _

  
_**Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz** _

  
Where were the bees?

  
Her skin cooled in a most concerning way as the sky above her darkened slowly, making her blink once, and twice, at how quickly it had changed before her very eyes.

  
Emma gasped as lightning struck further away, and her hands came up to cover her ears in a show of reflex.

  
However the tall tale rumble of thunder never came, just that horrid buzzing, and now even louder still.

  
She turned back to the group, only to find herself very much alone—not a Knightley, a Taylor, or strawberry in sight!

  
_**Buzzzz** _

  
"I say, where have you all gone?" She called out, pushing herself up on her feet, the grass, cold and wet, staining her white satin shoes.

  
When had it started to pour?

  
_**Buzzzzzzz** _

  
The earth under her was becoming damper and damper, though no rain fell. It was only the sound of thousands and thousands of bees buzzing, that pelted her skin over and over again.

  
"Miss Taylor!" She cried, straining her voice when she at last made an attempt to run, only to find herself unable to move, "Help! Miss Taylor, help!"

  
_**Buzzzzzzzzzz** _

  
No struggle or effort was sufficient enough, and no matter how hard she tried, the soil kept swallowing her up to the ankles.

  
"Help, Mr. Knightley!" she pleaded more desperate still, steadily sinking by the second, "I beg of you!"

  
_**Buzzzzzzz** _

  
"Mr. Knightly!" Her anguished shouts echoed across the now terrifyingly dark fields, "Where are you?!"

  
Hazel eyes strained as they searched and searched, until finally, they caught a faint glow of light several meters away.

  
A breath, pure and relived, left her chest at the sight of Mr. Knightley at last.

  
Oh and how glorious he was! There, only so far away, lantern in hand, surely looking for her.

  
"Mr. Knightley, here I am!" she gaped, clawing herself away from the mud almost engulfing her, now up to her waist, "Here!"

  
But her calls were for naught.

  
For George Knightley's eyes glowed stormy and unseeing, and the louder she cried for him, the farther away the glow of his lantern faded.

  
Even miles away, it was only his eyes that stood out; sad and unbearably disappointed.

  
Despite her fear and frustration, Emma couldn't help but blink, willing them to fade away with the rest of him.

  
Though it was no use, they were already imprinted harshly behind her eyelids, stronger still than the very light of the sun of which had only a short time ago blessed the skies before her doom.

  
It was the only thing she could see, even as darkness seeped from the edge her of strained vision.

  
"… _Mr. Knightley_ …" her pitiful whimpers deaf to his ears as he finally turned away, giving his back to her.

  
"No…no...I'm sorry, Mr. Knightley—I am sorry— _Please!_ "

  
Emma awoke with a resounding gasp; suddenly sitting up on her bed as she clutched her nicely pressed sheets with a death like grip, perspiration coating her forehead like morning dew to a flower.

  
Her chest heaved erratically until she was quite assured of her safety with a simple look about her, immensely glad to be greeted with the light and soothing shade of the fine curtains surrounding her canopy bed.

  
_'It was only a dream'_

  
Sighing daintily she threw her blonde head back into her pillow, hands coming up to rub at her eyes lazily.

  
_'Simply a dream'_

  
Quite content to not actually be drowning in a sea of sludge and invisible bees, Emma managed a small chuckle at last—for really, what a ridiculous nightmare it was!

  
Her smile faltered however when her ears pricked at the distressingly familiar sound, once again very much alive, and right outside the safety of her presently beloved curtains no less!

  
Only now she was able to tell that it indeed was not honeybees what buzzed all around her, but instead the much more unmistakable sounds of whispering—whispers that were very much alight all throughout her room.

  
Straining those ears of hers she tried to pick up what all was being said, however her efforts were for naught, for the whispers were so low and many in between that it was no wonder at all why she had confused them for a hive attack in her dreams.

  
Suddenly, Emma couldn't help but frown in concern.

  
Usually the maids were so good at respectfully tending to the chambers that scarcely even a peep could be heard most mornings—yet, today there was such a commotion?

  
It was very strange indeed, and uncouth as it were, to her better judgment she found herself gritting her teeth.

  
The more they whispered, the tenser her jaw felt, and it was a very strange action because Emma had never before experienced such annoyance at the simple notion that others might have things to say of which she so clearly was except from.

  
Perhaps they thought her still asleep?

  
Though that could not have been right, for as she had recalled mere moments ago, this was a very new occurrence— _and in fact_ —she just now realized—wouldn't someone have made to wake her by now?

  
Crossing her arms rather petulantly, the young woman huffed quite unbecomingly.

  
She would decide to give them the benefit of the doubt and allow another minute to pass, for she was certain one of those lively ladies was surely to step forward and 'wake her' at a moment's notice—wouldn't they not?

  
Wiggling her warm toes incessantly as the seconds passed, Emma slowly finished counting to the number sixty in her head.

  
Her brows scrunched slightly and so she added another count to twenty, for good measure.

  
Then ten more…

  
Yet still, not a wake up call in sight—very much _awake_ though, was that torrid whispering!

  
Huffing even louder, Emma reached out to her right and while clutching delicate fabric, slammed open the bed curtain there with an impressive amount of force.

  
Though blinded slightly by the light of the new morning day, the young girl found a perverse delight in the gasps from the maids as they scampered apart upon the sight of their glaring mistress.

  
"Miss Woodhouse!" One cried, stepping forward in a quick effort to curtsy towards her in greeting "Good morning—

  
"What hour is it that you can all chirp about louder than the birds?" Emma hissed, finding herself more irritated still, with their needless fumbling.

  
“A-apologies, Miss Woodhouse!" The very one who had braved her first, took yet another step forward "Did we wake you, Miss?"

  
Emma's frown deepened.

  
"What is the hour?" she asked, as if the very notion of her not being made aware of such a simple thing already, could hold the very real promise of chaos "has not Miss Taylor asked for me—or Sophie—there _will_ be a breakfast today, I assume?"

  
"Y-yes of course, Miss Woodhouse" another maid curtsied, "your chambers are still being prepared for the day, t-that is why we had not yet woken you, Miss" her squeaky voice held an understandably timid air.

  
"Yes, yes, I can see that very well for myself, thank you" Emma snapped, eyes glancing at the wall clock mounted to the side of the room.

  
It was already half past nine!

  
"Do continue with it later, and have someone call on Sophie, if you please!" she ordered, even more of her humor decreasing with each tick of the thin, golden, seconds hand.

  
"Yes Miss Woodhouse—right away Miss Woodhouse!"

  
The girl huffed, not even bothering to wait as the rest of the maids eagerly scampered out of her chamber, before plopping herself back down on her bed with an unmasked show of exasperation.

  
What had gotten into those women? She couldn't help but wonder.

  
Didn't they know how dreadfully droll the rest of her day would be should Mr. Knightley find her late for the morning meal?

  
He so hated her being tardy, and never failed to tell her so.

  
' _Proper young ladies should never find themselves in a position to make others wait, Emma_ ' she could already hear him grumble.

  
He would berate and chastise until her porridge ran cold, the preserves runny, and worst of it all, the chocolate all gone.

  
In fact if memory were to serve, even her toast had unfortunately caught fire only several months ago, eight minutes into an especially animated tirade—and that had only served to extend his tiresome fussing all the more.

  
Why, the whole matter should have been rendered ridiculous as it were, and therefore needn't the slightest chance of a repeat!

  
Though graciously, two minutes later, and quite lucky for her, Emma's annoyed contemplation was cut short at the sight of dear old Sophie stepping into the room, basin and pitcher in hand.

  
Her curtsy however was somber, and her smile wane.

  
The young mistress' smart eye was quick to notice how her lady's maid looked all sorts of worn; even her usually bright and happy gaze seemed dulled and decidedly downcast.

  
"What would Miss Woodhouse like to wear today?" she spoke, her voice straining to sound much more chipper than it clearly was.

  
Emma pointedly ignored the question "Is everything alright?" she heard herself inquire instead, observing attentively as the older girl made way to the washstand by the side of the room.

  
"You seem a bit upset—it's not dear Armand, is it?"

  
"Oh no, Miss Woodhouse" the French girl assured, waving the notion away with a distracting flourish of her hand, "he is quite well…in his— _Vivian's_ —last letter she tells me that he is still working very hard, for he hopes to fill his coin purse to bursting" she chuckled softly.

  
"Oh very good!" Emma clapped, biting her lip in anticipation, "then we shall be expecting a visitor soon?"

  
Now turning to face her, Sophie did smile, and meant it too.

  
"No, Miss Woodhouse" she laughed, helplessly amused "I'm afraid it will still take quite a very long time before we can expect a visit from him"

  
The blonde pouted, "How could it possibly take so long…"she bemoaned, throwing her upper half over her pillows rather dramatically.

  
"Oh, it cannot be helped", Sophie sighed lazily, giving her mistress a conspiring wink as she headed for the armoire "this is the way of life…"

  
But her words, Emma noted, seemed to trail off in a decidedly humorless tone; and for the countless time this morning, it gave the young girl pause.

  
Nevertheless she stood up; finally ready to start her day.

  
Her bathing water was still warm to the touch, and a comfortable white muslin morning gown had been laid out by the time she was ready to dress.

  
The blonde drowsily observed as the now silent lady's maid made quick work of adjusting the stays over her shift, and couldn't help but lift a puzzled brow as yet another melancholic sigh escaped the older girl while gently doing up the lacing.

  
"Alright" Emma sighed as well, "what is it, really?"

  
"Beg pardon, Miss?"

  
It was easy to see that Sophie was avoiding her gaze, even as she brought forth a petticoat over her head.

  
"This is a very strange morning, I think" Emma commented, huffing petulantly as she pulled the soft fabric all the way down in one annoyed tug "it is as if there's a disturbance in the air and no one seems to be at ease"

  
"Oh Miss Woodhouse…" the French girl bit her lip, uncertainty marring her light eyes.

  
Emma frowned.

  
"You may speak freely here, Sophie" she assured, "you always can."

  
Sophie stalled as she turned to fetch the pearl white stockings she had prior selected only moments ago, and thoughtfully fingered one of the bright blue silk ribbons at their side.

  
"Sophie?"

  
The older, darker haired girl sighed, seeming to steel herself as she faced her young mistress once more.

  
"…It is not so much a strange day, but a sad one", she admitted, hesitantly.

  
Both of Emma’s brows shot up, but she refrained from commenting.

  
Hoping that the lady's maid would elaborate, she wordlessly lifted her right foot, and afterwards the left, while the young woman crouched before her to carefully slide the delicate fabric of the silk stockings over each leg.

  
"You see…" Sophie began, her usually careful fingers fumbling to tie the ribbons above her knees "there has been talk about a most unsettling disappearance"

  
Emma wet her lips, "A disappearance?"

  
"Of an employed person of this very home" the other nodded forlornly, "so sudden it was, they say, t-that Lucifer himself must have opened the ground below him and swallowed him whole!"

  
The blonde, who's excitement had steadily amounted only to be cut short much too swiftly, scoffed.

  
"What nonsense" she countered, rolling her eyes and waving the notion away.

  
So it was nothing but yet another dull ghost tale among the staff, after all.

  
"It is true!" Sophie assured, "perhaps not by Lucifer himself, but someone has indeed been removed…"

  
"Removed?" Emma frowned, curiosity once again piqued, "Whom?"

  
The other girl shook her head, "I must admit I do not know who".

  
She had remained prostrated on the floor, her watery eyes baring up at Emma's as she self consciously clutched the fabric of her apron.

  
"…but Mrs. Hodges, she overheard the footmen talk of a carriage coming to the Abbey at early morn, with the replacement in tow—he is out in the stables now, they say, getting acquainted with the horses." Sophie scrunched her nose as an after thought; perhaps wondering unpleasantly at the idea of being around smelly horses all day.

  
Emma, for once, had no time to read into it, for her heart sped ferociously in her chest.

  
"In the stables...?"

  
"Oh yes" the lady's maid was solemn once more "everyone is upset about the whole thing—to think that someone could be relieved of their position so suddenly, to be dismissed with so little a thought…"

  
Emma shook her head, unabashedly shocked; words and sound momentarily lost to her.

  
_William Hill_

  
"Well of course it can happen anywhere" Sophie's voice carried on regardless, oblivious to her mistress' discomfort, "but they say it has never before been seen here.”

…

George Knightley, not bright eyed and certainly not bushy tailed, cleared his throat whilst he continued to spread butter unevenly over his bread; he had ridden all of evening past, and then all of dawn back, and in his worn face it was easily noticed.

  
His dark azure eyes were dulled and the skin under bruised with lack of sleep, his dark hair though combed, hinted of unruliness, and his cravat was skewed, even if ever so slightly.

  
And if Miss Taylor noticed that the skin of his jaw betrayed a very slight shadow, she did quite well in hiding it.

  
Bringing her teacup up to her lips, Anne blew daintily before taking a small sip.

  
"We missed you at supper, Mr. Knightley" she spoke softly, gentle, as if he were a wild deer and any louder than that would send him scampering away.

  
The man at the head of the table nodded, just once, it was cold and precise.

  
A warning, perhaps?

  
She knew at once that he would not see fit to speak of it now, and she understood perfectly.

  
There were many eyes and ears abound, after all, silent as they were.

  
"Where is Emma?" He asked instead, voice gravelly, though his gaze bore only on his bread, now ridden practically inedible as he unconsciously continued to spread more and more butter.

  
And if the footmen at his back noticed, they too did quite well in hiding it.

  
"On her way now, I'm sure", Miss Taylor's answer came easily, as did her smile.

  
"I do not like that she is always late" he sighed, exhausted.

  
The governess nodded, and hiding her chuckle, she could feel the forthcoming yet familiar lecture making an appearance.

  
_'Already? It must be a new record'_

  
One that may very well be hard to beat, seeing as the subject of it's aim had even yet to make her appearance.

  
“Yes, of course" as usual, she saw fit to humored her employer, for both theirs and Emma's sake, "It is understandable indeed"

  
"Young girls must be prudent to not keep others waiting" he muttered, the silver butter knife scraping against the fine ceramic of the butter dish, "what gives her leave to be so brazen?"

  
Anne bit the inside of her cheek, and took another sip of tea before allowing herself to answer.

  
"She is a lady, Mr. Knightley" she softly reasoned, "is it not in her right to keep the gentlemen in her life at bated breath for even the smallest moment of her company?"

  
"Gentlemen?" George grumbled quietly, stabbing into the miserable loaf in his hand,"What gentlemen? She is sixteen and still quite far away from a season…"

  
This time Miss Taylor did chuckle as she and the head footmen, Harry, shared amused looks whilst he stepped forward to refill his master's ale; all very discreetly, of course.

  
For who else but his ward could vex George Knightley so? And with such trifle little things the man had scarcely cared for himself not merely eight years ago.

  
It took Emma Woodhouse several more minutes, and her guardian countless more dabs of butter, until she so graciously made her presence known.

  
Anne looked up with a happy smile quickly turned frown.

  
She and her charge had spent the better part of late last night discussing how the young girl would behave come breakfast, how she would present herself with a cheery disposition in light of all that had occurred, that she would express her deep regret in the form of impeccably pleasing manners.

  
That she would charm George with radiant smiles, promising a new light, assuring that she was indeed responsible in understand her mistakes, and grown up enough to move past them.

  
Yet the look in her Emma's eyes was anything but understanding or grateful, instead they were untamed, almost savage-like in her rage, the pure pools of pale hazel thundering mercilessly as they searched about the room, and they blazed even brighter when they met midnight blue.

  
Her hair, once a lovely shinny mass of curls, fell against her back and profile in unruly waves of light molten gold, pallid-almost white baby hairs sticking to her temple from the perspiration gently sprinkled throughout the alabaster skin of her face and neck.

  
She was a vision in her own right, easily the image of a young ruthless and unsatisfied goddess, or a huntress in the prowl.

  
"Ah" it is Mr. Knightley who speaks first, though he does not look at her, even as she sends him the most cruelest of dagger glares, "good morning, Emma"

  
His ward does not respond, merely seethes silently not so very far away.

  
Yet still he does not look up at her even as another footman, from the down the hall, steps forward to hand him a letter from atop his silver mail plate; George merely gives it one curious look and then gestures it away just as suddenly.

  
"You're late— ** _sit_** "

  
"You sent him away?" Emma hissed, and it was not so much a question as it was an accusation.

  
Now this certainly caught his full attention, and his eyes did gaze upon her then.

  
Slowly they took in her state, drinking in the wild blush dusting the apples of her cheeks, and the darkened skin of her lips, bitten red in frustration.

  
His pupils widened, unbeknownst to him, and to those around him, for his eyes glowed like the darkest of sapphires; yet just as suddenly he lowered his gaze, hands growing tense and rolling into fists under the table.

  
"Emma" Miss Taylor warned cautiously from her own seat, "…it is unbecoming for a lady to speak to a gentleman in such a way…"

  
"Not if the _gentleman_ in question is so cruel a man as to have a poor boy thrown out in the streets!"

  
"Emma!" her governess was perturbed, the legs of her chair scraping the floor as she stood up at once.

  
"Take seat Emma, and perhaps we may discuss it at a later time" George's voice was cold, and very, very stern "now is not the moment"

  
Were she to look around, the young Woodhouse girl would have noticed the many widened eyes staring upon her with equal amounts of wonder and disbelief.

  
One maid, in her shock, even dropped the ladle from a porridge fountain she quickly placed on the table besides her employer, before hurrying away back to the kitchens, leaving it altogether forgotten on the tiled floor a few feet away.

  
This, it seemed, did very little to deter Emma.

  
"No! Let us discuss it now!"

  
Mr. Knightley lifted his gaze once more and leveled her with so angry a regard that it was this that made her step back immediately, concern now marring her outrage.

  
He did not speak in her direction when he lifted his right hand and slammed it on the table, making Miss Taylor flinch, as he asked his staff none too gently to leave them.

  
He did not speak to her when he threw the napkin at his collar down on his plate after lifting himself from his seat, if only to help her governess return to hers.

  
He also did not speak to Emma when he stepped towards her and rather harshly pulled her down on the chair she had so long ago, in a time now lost to them all, too easily claimed as her own.

  
Still he did not say a word as he returned to his place, pushing his torso back against his seat as he regarded her with silent fury, white hot, and burning her just by gaze alone.

  
If Emma's hazel irises had reflected in the form of thunder, his dark blue were a hurricane in the quiet midst of the dangerous eye of the storm.

  
For a moment she was lost in his stare, for her shock was that great, and it promptly left her wondering how it was that things had become like this.

  
Wasn't she supposed to be earning his forgiveness, after all?

  
Yet the very notion that she herself had been the cause of someone else's great misfortune simply could not sit well with her.

  
William Hill, presumptuous as he was to believe that he could ever truly win her favor, did not deserve be to sent away— _discarded even_ —for the likes of her honor.

  
Honor that, by the look the man before her was giving, she clearly was not deserving of.

  
It made Emma's ire bubble and rapture all the more.

  
She opened her mouth, ready to convey that very anger with even more conviction than before.

  
" ** _Enough of this and eat._** "

  
Mr. Knightley would not even grant her that, his words hissing through gritted teeth and cutting through her own with a decided air of finality.

  
It sounded much too foreign to her ears, almost like a new and unheard language.

  
Where was the considerate Mr. Knightley who always listened to her complaints with rapt attention, no matter the case?

  
Where was the gentle protector who dried her tears and would assure her that this too was another stepping-stone in the great lesson of life?

  
He had, it seemed, simply and so easily been banished away along with that poor insignificant stable boy, and along as well as with what little dignity he afforded her.

  
"The boy—

  
"I need not answer to you, Emma!" he snapped, "Nor will I be questioned by **_anyone_** in my own home!"

  
His voice thundered throughout the room, and it was so loud, Emma was sure it carried even farther into the hall.

  
The blonde flinched, biting her tongue on impact, the slight metallic taste of blood overpowering all her senses.

  
Fitting as it was, to accommodate the chill running through her spine.

  
Miss Taylor at the other side of the table across from her looked upon them with wide, alarmed brown eyes.

  
Neither Mr. Knightley, nor Emma, made a single move.

  
The air around them had grown impossibly thick with tension, and were it not for the soft heaving of both of their chests, the governess would have surely mistaken them for impossibly life like statues.

  
Her hands shook slightly as she bent forward and grabbed the nearby teapot previously abandoned by one of the footmen, before carefully proceeding to pour some of its content into her charge's cup.

  
Emma's miserable look gave her no ease, even as she earnestly pushed the cup towards her.

  
It was for naught, of course, for the young blonde was as stubborn as ever.

  
Next she chanced a look at George Knightley, though he fared not much better.

  
The gentleman landowner was perhaps even tenser than his ward, having refused to look away from Emma, despite the quite obvious tensing of his strong jaw betraying his discomfort.

  
They were the masters of a silent war, it seemed, a battle that only the two were privy to, and neither was willing to lose.

  
Yet to both Anne Taylor and a reluctant Mr. Knightley's befuddlement, it was the willful Emma who reacted first.

  
She who had sat still for two whole minutes practically carving a hole into her plate with the sheer force of her unpleasant glower—who had clenched her small pale hands at her side over the table in silent contemplation, and whom had looked up at them with such unabashed defeat, despite the fire still raging in her veins—had suddenly and very simply stood up, turning on her heels, and walked away.

  
" _Emma!_ " it was Miss Taylor, jumping to her feet as well, who desperately called after her to no avail.

  
"Leave her be" George sighed as he spoke, and it left the governess wondering how such a strong and virile man, who's very might usually and very easily overpowered any challenge set before him, could sound so defeated and ancient.

  
The governess frowned "this misunderstanding—

  
Mr. Knightley shook his head, throwing it back against the neck of his chair ruggedly; silently contemplating to the good lord how long now had it been since he missed his bed.

  
"…One day she will understand…" he assured her.

  
Anne, for her part, had the distinct feeling that it sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself.

…

Emma ran, and ran, and ran.

  
She trotted until her feet, encased in silk now forever marred by grass and mud, ached with every step, and her lungs, ruthlessly trapping the scarcest of air within, burned with each punishing shallow breath.

  
However she did not stop, did not slow until her normally delicate legs had brought her to the large worn doors of Donewell's main stable, stumbling slightly as she propped herself against the rough wood, palms scraping lightly as she caught her fall.

  
"…William Hill…" she gasped, chest heaving widely, wilder even than her untamed locks, brighter still, than the hay sprinkled carelessly about the surrounding ground.

  
This was how the new stable hand, an old and withered Mr. Cork, had found her.

  
"Young girls like ye shouldn't go runnin' about here, little lady" he grunted, wiping his large scruffy hands on his old tattered trousers, before offering to help Emma onto the only seat in the whole stable, an ugly moss ridden stool, rickety as it was.

  
Had she not been so distressed, the Woodhouse girl would not know at what exactly she should be more appalled.

  
"…Am I correct to assume…" Emma breathed deeply as she spoke instead, her trembling pale hands coming up to dab at her temples, "…that you are Mr. Hill's replacement..?"

  
Obvious as it was, she still felt the need for confirmation.

  
The old man frowned, and an angry set of deep lines creased his dark, sun exposed forehead.

  
"I don' yet know a single soul in this Abbey, girl" he finally replied, watching her warily as if she must have fallen from the very sky.

  
And to him she might as well have.

  
"Whether I'm a Hill's replacement or not, ain't my concern…I was only brought here ter watch over these stables"

  
So that was that then.

  
The desperate ache in the pit of Emma's belly slowly dimmed.

  
Despite all this however, she for the life of her, did not know what else could have been expected.

  
She nodded, averting her gaze as her heaving chest calmed, and a much clearer awareness descended over her person.

  
Suddenly her body froze up again and her eyes hurriedly snapped back towards the large stable doors, letting out a relieved sigh only after finding them wide open.

  
Quickly she pushed herself off the stool, and wasted no further time in leveling the new farm hand with her most imperious of looks.

  
"You will tell no one I was here", she commanded, shifting her eyes away from his raised brows so that she could adjust her now less than impeccable dress, "not a single soul"

  
Taken aback, the old man grumbled, "now ye listen here, girl—

  
"Girl?!" Emma hissed, turning back to greet him with the most outraged of glares, "Presume to refer towards me in this way again, _I simply dare you._ "

  
This time the authority in her voice certainly penetrated the old stable hand's baffled brow, of which lowered in regretful concern.

  
Just who was this wild, willful little thing anyway? With her soiled gown and messy locks.

  
He bowed shallowly if only to humor her, before turning his back at her in favor of his labored duties.

  
"Well, whoever ye are…", he grunted, lowering himself to lift one of the sacks of feed before him, "ye should get along now. I'm quite busy an’ would very much like ter get back ter work"

  
Unsatisfied Emma rolled her eyes; as if she needed him to dismiss her!

  
Nonetheless she allowed it begrudgingly, swallowing her pride despite herself.

  
"Certainly." She huffed, crossing her arms and willing her tongue not to spill from her lips petulantly.

  
She was after all meant to be a young woman now, and not petty child.

  
Much as she'd failed in successfully conveying it these days.

  
"…Do carry on then..."

  
After all, what was the point of lording over someone so bellow her, if even her power was so measly it could do nothing for that pitiful William Hill anyway?

  
Emma bit her lip.

  
She was just as pitiful as he was, wasn't she?

  
Catching a glance at the ruined fabric of her expensive morning dress she sniffed forlornly, feeling the vat of misery stewing in her belly grow into a never ending pit.

  
She even looked pitiful.

  
"Well if yer going ter stand there all day anyway, ye might as well offer a name" The old man grunted farther behind her, as he dumped the remains of the sack into a trough in one of the horses' stalls, "Miss...?"

  
" _Miss Woodhouse!_ "

  
Emma jumped at the sound of her being called, and shot a panicked look towards the stable doors, still left wide open.

  
Of course they would send someone to look for her, lord knew they'd send a whole battalion to scout for her if either of them felt the need arise!

  
"No matter that" she spoke, lowering her voice significantly as she turned to face the stable hand.

  
"I would rather be shown how to take my leave somewhere other than by there" she pointed at the entrance, "if you would be so kind?"

  
She ignored the man's baffled look and gestured at him desperately, "presently!", her order sounding more to the tune of supplication.

  
Old man Cork simply sighed.

…

"…Miss… _Woodhouse_...?"

  
It was a maid who greeted him next, mere moments after begrudgingly pointing out the rickety old half door at the far end of the stable to that hellion of a girl who scampered away just as quickly as she had arrived.

  
" _Oh!_ ", The young woman, at encountering him, offered a timid curtsy, "You must be Mr. Cork, the new stable hand?"

  
_'What now?'_ he grumbled to himself.

  
Was this Donwell Abbey really always so lively in the mornings?

  
"Aye"

  
"I apologize for interrupting…"the girl spoke, wringing her hands absentmindedly.

  
" _Hn_ ", the old man waved her off, once again and for what felt like countless times just this morn alone, he turned back to his work in hopes that he'd finally be left to it in peace.

  
Scarcely deterred, the maid remained firmly rooted where she stood.

  
"…Its just that our young mistress…" She explained, biting her lip in concern and ignoring the other's grouchy demeanor, " she seems to have ran off, and it's time for her music lessons, you see—the governess is beyond herself with worry looking for her"

  
_'Our young **what?!** '_

  
Cork coughed, heart stopping for an unpleasant moment.

  
"…M-Mistress...?" he wheezed.

  
It had been to his understanding that his new employer was an unmarried man.

  
The maid nodded as she rubbed her worried brow.

  
"The master's ward", she replied absentmindedly while her eyes scanned around the inside of the stable.

  
Though she doubted the girl in question would ever set foot in such a place, it never hurt to check just in case.

  
"Miss Woodhouse" she added, as if it would have been any more helpful to the old man.

  
Only it was.

  
The old stable worker lifted a worn gloved hand to his temple and wiped the sweat coating his brow with a shaky wrist.

  
This kind of madness was certainly not what he needed, much less on his very first day!

  
"…I've not seen anyone…" he assured, swallowing thickly, and once again averting his gaze.

  
It was best he simply continued occupying himself with his work, lest he too, like he supposed his predecessor before him, found himself without employment.

  
He was however glad to see the servant girl, retreating at last, nodding her understanding with one last anxious look about her.

  
"Well, I do suppose it was worth a try" she muttered, and it was accompanied by a sigh that foretold just how long it's owner had been engaged in this unlucky and rapidly failing mission.

  
Her receding steps, nevertheless, were like a much beloved welcomed gift to the old man.

  
And after making sure both of them were long gone, Cork couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle, before returning to his feed with yet another grunt.

  
"...Miss Woodhouse, eh...?"

  
Well he most certainly wouldn't mind it at all if he were to never have another run in with her.

  
_'Mental little bint’_

...

"That old bat better not say a word", Emma grumbled, pulling her mud ridden slippers and stockings off her chilled feet, already reddened by the unexpected exercise, and the dampness of the earth.

  
Even despite it, she found herself shivering at the feel of Donwells old, cold, stoned flooring, and inwardly cursed that luckless Hill.

  
Tip toeing past the footmen stationed at the main hall, Emma somberly climbed up the large staircase to her wing, contemplating just how things could have truly gotten so out of hand.

  
Really, all she ever wanted was just one measly come out.

  
Just one itty bitty little ball— _only just the one_ —to single her out as a young lady in her own right.

  
Was that really so much to ask?

  
But no! Apparently it seemed that even the mighty heavens were completely and utterly against her!

  
Emma Woodhouse, the pitiful little entertainment of all the fates…

  
How fitting it was!

  
And _honestly_ , it indeed serve her right, for ever even dreaming of listening to the council of that unhelpful, scandalously minded Emily Be—

  
" _Ah!_ " she cried, her skin almost jumping right off her in fright at the sight of the man so casually dozing at the last step on the top, " _Mr. Knightley!_ "

  
George awoke with a start, wide eyed and caught unawares by the girl wobbling unsteadily over him.

  
Quickly and without much thought, he instinctively reached forward and grasped the front of her gown in an effort to keep her steady, breathing a sigh of relief when she managed to compose herself at the behest of gripping the nearby wooden banister to keep her feet firmly planted on the steps.

  
The landowner briefly closed his eyes in silent gratitude.

  
The very last thing he ever needed was for his ward to tumble and fall down the stairs, what with everything else that has happened.

  
Gathering what was left of his bearings, George lifted himself up to stand over her instead.

  
"Where have you been, Emma?" he questioned, ignoring the wariness in his tone as he proceeded to observe the sudden bit of mud staining his palm.

  
Not that it would be _particularly_ hard to garner a guess as to where exactly she might have been.

  
And this realization only furthered in vexing him, much to his chagrin.

  
"…Out…" Emma replied, pointedly avoiding his eyes, ignoring the sudden flush in her cheeks, "…Just having a turn about the gardens…"

  
Not that it helped much at all, as she could still feel the weight of Mr. Knightley's gaze boring over her.

  
He didn't speak for a moment, and within it, Emma had enough time to ponder on whether he had yet to have found her letter.

  
Her cheeks grew darker still.

  
Truthfully, she couldn't trust herself to know whether she hoped he had already read it or not.

  
At least not presently.

  
"Go change", George finally muttered, "I'll have cook bring up some porridge. You may start your music lessons after you've eaten."

  
"But—

  
"Miss Taylor will keep the maestro company until you are ready"

  
She had barely lifted her gaze, only to find him descending past her down the steps, unwilling to bare her for even a second longer.

  
Emma lowered her head in shame.

  
If she was the one whom refused to forgive him for William's removal, how was it that it was her own heart, which wallowed in all the guilt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yeah it took me a while to post this (if anyone cares, I was away visiting family, because I am finally an aunt now! Yayy! also I did have some laptop issues...boo!) but anyway, thankfully this one is long enough to be a bit of a treat for the long wait (unless anybody reading this "cheated" and looked up chapter five at the old sight hehe). 
> 
> Also, this was where I last left off in my original un-revised draft, so from now on everything after this chapter will be completely fresh material sooo...wish me luck y'all.
> 
> Quick thank you to everyone who has given kudos and encouragement, I really appreciate it! 
> 
> Until next time!


	6. Chapter 6

  
“ _This is utterly unacceptable!_ ”

“ _Dear Mr. Gastoldi, your frustration are understandable and well placed, you must believe me—but I assure you, it won’t be long now for Miss Woodhouse to greet you._ ”

“ _An hour, dear lady! I have been sitting here for the greater part of the hour—and **still** , the girl is nowhere to be seen!_” 

Emma flinched as the master of music’s harsh tone reverted past even the thick fifteenth century manor walls.

It had been now almost eight minutes since her arrival, and though the two individuals at the other side of the door grew in anxiety at her lack of presence, the young girl had yet endeavored  
to let herself known.

Sharing a hesitant look with the drawing room hall’s footman, she gave an uncertain nod, of which was met in kind.

Emma swallowed thickly, “Well Carter, I suppose it is now or never?”

The old footman bowed, taking a quick moment to glance down at his young mistress, before pushing open the large double doors at long last.

Quietly, as to not arise suspicion, he then gave his response, and despite the conspiring tone of his voice, amusement hinted at his words.

“One must look at the bright side, Miss Woodhouse.”

Emma grew wary at the thought, “Is there any to be had…?”, she bemoaned.

Carter’s nod was discreet, “Perhaps after this day, it might finally be the last we shall see head or tail of this good maestro?”

“ _Oh!_ ”, Emma grinned, agreeing, and her eyes practically twinkled at the thought of it…

Before her excitement quickly turned to dust, when recalling the very last time he was here.

She had purposely played off key just to be rid of him then, only all that had done, after all, was further incite him to stay for three hours more.

“My dear sir,” She lamented, “If _only_ the heavens were so gracious.” 

Carter bowed once more, allowing ample time for the girl to step past him, before closing the doors behind her with a resounding thud.

“ _Ah!_ Emma!”, Miss Taylor’s sigh was as relieved as it was fretful, “finally you are here— _come_ , come greet the maestro—he has been so graciously waiting all this time.”

Her charge’s smile was as thin as her own, and so the governess tried her best not to hurry her in anymore than necessary.

For her part, the young girl merely observed as the older woman fretted over her anxiously, while her hazel gaze pointedly ignored the red faced instructor standing grumpily to the side.

“You must let him know how much obliged we are to have him honor us so kindly, despite our…our…”, Miss Taylor gently gestured with her hand as she struggled with her words, “…careless comportment…”

Under the musician’s unpleasant glower, Emma managed to curtsy with the fair air of one whom was not late to an engagement, nor could ever care if she were.

“Good morn.”

“ _Hmm!_ ”, The old musician’s bow was stiff, and his look very mean indeed, even as he turned to face Miss Taylor shortly after.

“If a student is to at least give half a thought to her playing, as she is to dawdling, one would be more keen as turn a blind eye to… _careless comportment_ … as you say, Madam.”

While Emma tried not flinch at the poison in the man’s voice, her governess, whom already for the greater part of the hour had been forced upon the pleasure of such lacking delicacy, refrained from letting out the sigh that threatened to spill from lips at the exasperation of it all. 

Instead, her smile grew strained, and her already rosy cheeks darkened, “our Emma has been most prompt in her studies, Mr. Gastoldi,” she assured, “for that I can vouch.” 

Emma’s eyes widened as they snapped their attention to the older woman, and despite her careful steps, she almost stumbled slightly in shock while making her way across the room.

Miss Taylor ignored the baffled look on her charge’s face, and held her head up slightly higher as she spoke, “why, only just yesterday she spent most of the morning entertaining us with _Cramer_ and _Pleyel_ ” 

“ _I_ …did..?”, The blonde mumbled in awe, her brows scrunching up in contemplation.

Hadn’t she spent that whole morning yesterday playing cards with…

Miss Taylor pinned her with a stern look.

“Err—that is…y-yes?”, at her governess encouraging nod, she grinned and sent her music instructor a look of pure triumph, “ _Of course_ I did!”

The musician’s bold dark gaze scrutinized his student, and then her governess, before slowly lifting a skeptical brow.

“Her playing has much improved since having the pleasure of your tutelage,” Miss Taylor added with a sniff as she shifted to look in the opposite direction, whilst also picking at the invisible lint on her right sleeve, “…I dare say she’s quite adept…”

The wide eyed look from before was enhanced with a gaped mouth, as Emma attempted to comprehend what all was actually happening, before slowly, her awe morphed into deep admiration.

For had the responsible, and always honest Anne Taylor, just so easily _fibbed?_

Warmth grew in Emma’s heart, perhaps scorched by the small kindle of constrained fire within her Miss Taylor’s own chestnut eyes.

Though where this surprised stemmed from, the girl hadn’t the faintest clue, because really, if ever there was one whom would stand up for her, even in times of great unease, it was surely she.

“Well..”, Gastoldi finally spoke, turning his own nose away from either of them, thoroughly unimpressed, and not one to be cowed, “ _that_ has yet to be seen.”

Emma smothered her scoff, choosing instead to allow Miss Taylor to lead her towards the grand pianoforte at the side of the large room.

It was an impressive instrument, great in size, imposing, yet somehow unassuming, much like the rest of Donwell. 

Though no matter how handsome the structure, how impressive the quality of materials, or how well it really did compliment the overall look of the space, to her, it was merely the big unsightly _hunk of wood_ used to keep her hostage every Tuesday and Thursday, without respite, for an indefinite amount of time.

In short, Emma despised the ghastly thing. 

“Behave, I’m begging of you,” her governess muttered pleadingly at her, while bending forward to feign at adjusting her charge’s shawl, and together, as if hoping he had somehow puffed away, they chanced a glance at the master of music.

The old man tapped his foot as he read his pocket watch, and upon meeting their gaze, his prominent frown only deepened.

This time, indulging herself, Emma did roll her eyes; speaking of ghastly relics, she despised _that one_ too. 

Gastoldi was indeed the very best money could pay for, but his manners could use some refurbishing, and his attitude more than just a little adjustment.

At the very least, he wasn’t even pleasant to look at, unlike the fine young pianist a particular Campbell’s family had hired, or so a certain overly proud spinster aunt kept going on, and on, _and on_ about. 

Worst yet, _nothing_ could please this man. 

Even Mr. Knightley himself, was not so strict and unbending!

Seeing her expression, Miss Taylor’s lips thinned in reprimand, but despite the clear warning, Emma couldn’t help but find no reason in making things easier for the dour man.

After all, it wasn’t like he would ever repay her curtesy with any of his own— _well_ —assuming he had any to start with.

“ _Behave,_ ” her governess mouthed, just as the instructor made his way over, “ _I’ll come for you as soon as I can._ ” 

“ ** _What?_** ”, Emma was so outraged she was already making to stand.

However, when Gastoldi’s menacing shadow hovered over on her other side, she forced herself to sit back down with a nervous chuckle. 

Desperate hazel eyes turned back to Miss Taylor, betrayed.

“You’re going to leave me _here_ alone with _him?_ ”

Despite Anne’s guilty look, and though she made to respond, it was Gastoldi whom answered.

“Oh fret not, Miss Woodhouse,” he was practically beaming at the wariness in the other’s face, “I’m sure we’ll have a _delightful_ time.”

Said Woodhouse girl could only gape at him, baffled and tormented.

It really did almost make him simper. 

Already he had long been made aware that the governess had some matter or other that required her prompt attention—and _Eufrasio Gastoldi_ would not dare make a liar out of himself—if he denied admitting that he very much enjoyed the prospect of paying back this bratty little student of his, for every precious minute and second wasted away today on whatever insignificant little whim had overran her good sense this time. 

“Now let us see…” he prompted, shuffling through the various sheets of music he had toiled with in her long absence—because for her, in honor of the occasion, not just _any_ old piece would do.

“Whom here has of yet been given the absolute pleasure of being butchered by your hands— _ah!_ Yes, this will do nicely, I think… _Vivaldi_ …”

While Emma sent her the deadliest and most hateful of glares, Anne Taylor could only pull the corners of her mouth up at the attempt of a smile, as she quite discreetly backed away, little by little, until the very last bit of her form was completely out of the room.

“Shall I leave the doors open, Miss?”, Carter asked, just as she had made it out, unscathed, and with enough of her bearings.

Anne did indeed have a few things that promptly needed to be handled, however none so serious, but much as she adored Emma— _truly_ —even she would rather be anywhere than sit through yet another session or two of her charge’s deliberate out of key singing.

“Oh, _heavens no_ ,” She replied, closing the doors herself, “if the good maestro wants to rid himself of his hearing, he is well within his rights to do so on his own.”

The footman chuckled as she passed, “I was under the impression that Miss Woodhouse was quite accomplished?”, he replied.

“Yes, _well_ ”, the governess waved the notion away, without bothering to slow her stride, “I’m afraid it’s become the house secret, at this rate.”

  
  
….

At the other side of the manor, by the west wing, and well away from any unpleasant singing, or any careless note playing, the lord and master of the house had made it to his personal study at last.

_Not_ with the help of his overly attentive house keeper.

“Mrs. Hodges, I assure you, I’m quite alright as I am,” George guaranteed, as he stifled his yawn for the countless time that morning, “and I _thank you_ , but I really must see to the correspondence at once.”

The room was humid and cold, due to the fire not being started, though he payed it no mind as he quickly made his way towards his work space.

“But, sir”, the matronly woman fretted by the door, gesturing madly to the attendants behind her so that they knew to properly accommodate the room, “you’ve only just arrived what three hours ago, and you were out all night as well. Surely, the mail can wait?” 

As the servants worked, Mr. Knightley surveyed the expanse of his writing desk, and at seeing it so neat and tidy, he raised a curious brow. 

He could easily recall not being quite so diligent in organizing his paperwork or his old letters, last he was here.

“I’m afraid work waits for no one, “ he replied at last, forcing away any small hint of annoyance threatening his tone; for even while battling exhaustion, he could still not begrudge a caring old woman’s concern.

He sighed, “I will certainly rest the second I’m done.” 

“But _sir_ —

“Has anyone been in here since yesterday?”

Mrs. Hodges, well in her way to preparing herself for another round of nagging, stopped short and frowned, looking around the chamber as if actually taking real notice of it for the first time since arriving.

“Er— _well_ …no,” she replied, seemingly racking her brains, “not since you were here last, sir—no one is allowed inside when you’re away, I make sure of that myself…”

George ran a fingertip over the polished finish of his wooden desk, and curiously observed the very slight bit of dust that accumulated there.

It had not been a lie, it was clear enough that no staff had entered.

“Is something amiss?”, his house keeper inquired, now even more wary than before.

Her employer merely shook his head as he lowered himself on his seat, already busying himself with what he had set to do from the very start.

She watched him as he tampered with his drawers, shifting through papers and all personal belongings, before stoping abruptly and frowning as he reached for the pile of letters resting innocently on the side.

George pulled them towards him as his eyes naturally caught sight of the note on top, and his concerned grimace shifted from one of surprise, to the smallest of helpless smiles.

“That will be all, Mrs. Hodges”, he muttered, lost in thought as he turned the inconspicuous letter in his hands, “thank you.”

“…Very well, sir..?”

The house keeper curtsied, clearly baffled, and gesturing to the rest of the attendants under her, she watched over as they all carefully retired promptly from the room.

Mr. Knightley waved her away, and waited until she too had gone, before letting out a soft chuckle.

So he _did_ have a little intruder after all. 

Emma had to be the only person in the whole wide world that could infuriate him to heaven come, to the point of utter madness even, and then so easily turn around and bring him to his knees in her favor at the drop of a hat, with little to no effort at all.

Just how did she do that, and _why_ was it so easy for him to fall for it? He wondered about it as he painstakingly contemplated opening the letter. 

There was little doubt of it being her apology, though even he had to admit that he had not expect one after today.

George’s fingers twitched and itched to tear the wax seal, but a very slight tingle in his chest stopped him—and it was that little bit of resentment, drowning in hurt and slowly still clawing mercilessly at his insides—what managed to keep him at bay. 

You see, George Knightley knew very well what would happen if he were to read the carefully written words hidden inside. 

He knew exactly that if Emma explained herself, and he were forced to see things through her prospective, all would inevitably be forgiven.

He did want to forgive Emma—he _will_ forgive her. 

He was going to even without the letter, but…

Not yet, not so soon.

He owed himself some respect, after all, and what more, he owed her the same.

In his mind, if he were to pardon her so easily, and if she could not learn for herself the severity of her own actions, then he would fail as a guardian, and only she will come to suffer for it.

Emma was a clever girl, and she was kind, _and_ loving, but she was also spoiled.

He felt he was at fault for that as well.

Perhaps if he could curve a bit of his own desire of keeping her protected, even within the bubble of her own fancies and illusions, and if he could simply just teach her far past a mere slap on the wrist, so to speak, she might yet still grow up to be not so nonsensical.

George nodded, humming to himself as he made his decision, and folding the letter, he placed it within the left breast pocket of his waist coat. 

_Yes_ , he will read the letter.

_Yes_ , he will forgive Emma. 

_Not yet_ , but in due time.

Then, perhaps someday far after that, he may even come to forgive himself.

_This most unworthy Emma…_

Though he was plagued by the apprehension of his failed parenting—far as he was to a father figure in anyone's life, much less Emma’s, he could not help but grin at the thought of those silly mockingly pitiful words, of which at some point or other had been so carelessly scribbled by the owner of such an obnoxious hand.

George fondly patted the spot over his vest pocket, even as his chuckle turned into a snort.

“ _Mr. Knightley, sir?_ ” 

The hinges of his study’s door protested loudly as it was creaked opened, while one of the footmen from earlier that morning stood anxiously before the threshold.

The master of the manor looked up to address him, and taking note of the mail plate secured in the other’s hand, he gestured him forward.

“I almost forgot all about it”, he admitted, reaching out to take the letter when it was presented to him once more, “thank you, Adams.”

The footman bowed, “Good day, sir.”

George nodded his dismissal, and whilst his eyes traced the intricate penmanship, his thumb rubbed over the galant coat-of-arms seal holding the letter together.

Just as an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, he contemplated how long it had been since his great uncle had written him last. Not that George was foolish enough to not expect any, or at least, some form of correspondence after the events of the night prior. 

After all, it was this man, whom at such short notice, had graciously welcomed his former stable boy.

Wasting no more time, he ripped the seal open, and mouthing the first few lines to himself, his unsettled concern promptly shifted into bafflement.

_“Dearest cousin,_

_“Winter and spring have come and gone, ten times to be exact, since your last visit. Of how I have mourned our once carefree days…”_

Mr. Knightley frowned, and after double checking the words again, his frown deepened.

“…H-Hortense?” 

If he had not heard from his father’s uncle in so long, there was even less to be said about the man’s grandchild.

The last time he had seen her— _well_ —he couldn’t quite fathom…

He quickly re-read her first sentence, of which by her accounts, declared ten long years, and contemplated to himself as to why exactly she would care address Donewell now, and to write him, of all people?

Vaguely, if he forced himself enough, he could recall very dark hair, blue eyes, and the unfortunate remnants of what one might attribute to a sickly pallor.

In fact, if George dared call to mind even longer lost memories, he might also recollect the juvenile feel of his racing heart as his once short legs hastened in running away any time their mothers teased him of a promising future together.

He chortled. 

As the only daughter of the late heir of a prominent Lordship, surely she would have been married off by now.

Reaching for the tea one of the maids had graciously served him earlier, Mr. Knightly took a thoughtful sip as he lazily scanned the rest of the letter.

_“…Even mama whom thinks of you as a great favorite of hers, has been low in her spirits at the thought that you must be so busy as to not humor her invite to any of our seasons in…”_

_“…imagine my absolute delight when my grandfather spoke of your arrival this morning, it was over shadowed only by the disappointment of when I was informed of your departure so soon after…”_

_“…At the very least, you must know we expect your presence at…”_

George winced as hot liquid scorched his tongue, forcing him drop the folded quarto paper as if that was what burned him.

Cautiously, he lowered the teacup, and with a wary look, slowly leaned over to re-read the very last bit once more. 

Two unexpected words stood out alarmingly, almost on par—yet somehow even more frightening—to that of a burning house in the middle of the night.

_Always yours_

George blinked, several times.

Even as distant cousins, she had ended the letter in a much too warm of a regard.

Once again the ghost of his late mother’s teasing echoed in his ears, making him, now a grown man, shudder no less than he did as a child.

It had only ever been a joke at his expense, all those years ago, after all he was just seven then, and she a newborn, surely no one could have possibly taken it to heart. 

Could they?

He shook his head, chuckling nervously at the silliness of it all.

_‘Of course not…’_

And even _if_ these distant relatives of his had indeed taken great pains to request a visit from him, going as far as entreating poor Hortense to administer the invitation, it was only for the pleasure of formally meeting again after so many years of disassociation.

_‘Yes’_ , he nodded to himself, quickly swiping at the curious bit of perspiration suddenly coating his temples, _‘that had to be it!’_

An overpoweringly floral scent penetrated the air about his head then, and as he lowered his hand he couldn’t help but inspect his long fingers while doing so, going as far as brining them up to his nose for a quick sniff.

“What in the world..?”

George could not recall the last time he had received a scented letter— _if at all_ —so strange to him was the very prospect of one.

With the heavy feel of alarm bells ringing over his heart once more, the gentleman proceeded to pick up his pen from the ink pot, and using it’s handsome feather as an appendage, he purposely pushed aside Hortense’s opened letter, as far away from his person as it could possibly go. 

“John—John should be expecting a response…” he muttered, suddenly much too aware of his lack of work ethic, and fumbling through the old pile of mail previously left abandoned on the opposite end of the desk, he finally came across the thick missive his younger brother had sent him so many days ago.

“Must write him first!”

….

“Tempo— _tempo_ , Miss Woodhouse, and with a little more emotion if you please…!”

As Gastoldi hummed the piece, his foot loudly tapped on each beat pointedly, “like so”, he ordered, gesturing sharply at his pupil to continue.

_‘…How is this for **emotion** …’_ Emma silently grumbled, slamming her fingers over each key with only slightly less force than a trampling elephant might, _‘…you un-glad little deaf man…’_

With the music much too loud, and her playing sporadic for the greater part of two hours now, it was only expected that she’d be made to practice until her fingers grew sore, and her voice was left exhausted. 

So naturally, what little enjoyment could possibly be had, came in the way of showcasing not only an excessive willingness to not learn, but also the evasion of any manner of improvement.

“I do not hear your _voice._ ”

The blonde’s self satisfied smirk shifted to a miserable frown. Hadn’t either of them quite enough of her singing for the day— _indeed_ , for the whole week?

Clearing her throat, she winced at the discomfort, and wondered miserably how much longer her vocal cords could possibly last.

“Some time today would be grand, Miss Woodhouse—starting from the top!”

Left with no other options before her, Emma closed her eyes, and whilst sending a small prayer up to the heavens, inhaled… 

**_“sAd WAs tHE pLIGHT of ThE wanDERINg STRanGEr, hUNgRY AND pALE wAs THE iNFAnt ShE BOre—_ **

“NOT THAT ONE”, Gastoldi snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, not for the first time today, “start again— _Silent Worship, in C major. **I beseech you.**_ ”

Emma huffed, letting her hands drop unceremoniously to her lap in protest, “I am already tired of singing it”, she whined.

Her master of music scoffed.

“I must ask that you refrain from sullying the name of such graceful art, Miss Woodhouse, with the screeching hell-fire you have much too daringly called _singing._ ”

The younger of the two rolled her eyes, pressing down absentmindedly on one of the minor keys with a single thin finger. 

“Mr Knightley says my voice is perfectly adequate”, she informed.

Gastoldi laughed dryly, and ignoring the cold look Emma sent him, he leaned down to turn the sheets of her music book himself.

“Clearly the poor man has succumb to madness”, he reasoned, eye’s scanning for the right score, “no doubt from the effects of your performances.”

Unfazed, Emma feigned interest in the gloss of her bracelet, “It is no fault of the pupil, if a teacher fails in their duty to _teach._ ”

Averting the very strong desire to go for his beating stick, sitting on its lonesome on the sofa across the room, the old master of music bit his tongue to the count of five, in an effort to properly reminded himself of where he stood, and exactly who’s ward he was instructing. 

_Nevertheless_ , his eye twitched.

To conceive that at one point in his life he had actually conducted in large music halls—garnering praise everywhere he went, mind—only to now find himself as the miserable subject of great mockery for such an ungrateful and overindulged child…

_Well_ , much as he _must_ abstain, the very thought of it _surely_ was enough incentive to garner a thorough punishment or two on his behalf.

Gastoldi shook his head, forcing away the small fantasy of a well-deserved lashing gallivanting through his mind, and thought instead of the attractive and hefty sum of money that awaited him by the end of the session.

“You _may_ proceed with _Silent Worship_ ”, he spoke at last, calmly, and letting out a much too patient breath, “once you are ready.”

Emma, whom for her part had been able to do nothing more than observe her music master’s face as it shifted from a myriad of magnificent shades of puce, could only nod in obedience for once. 

Reluctantly, she wiggled her tired fingers, and began playing the wretched song again.

**_“…DID yOU NoT hEAr MY lADy…Go DOwN the GArDEN sINGing…”_ **

Though the girl had been caught off guard, due her instructor’s severe lack of exploding rage, she still managed to glare at him as he made a turn about the pianoforte.

“ _Ah_ , Mr, Knightley!”, she heard him call, somewhere by the other side of the room, once she had lost sight of him, “ _Do_ come in!”

**_“…BlACk BI~rd and thrush were silent, to hear the alleys ringing…”_** , with her heart in her throat, the blonde made a hasty effort to improve upon not just her performance, but her posture as well, and in painstaking effort, attempted to look over her shoulder discreetly, **_“Oh, saw you not my lady—_**

Her busy fingers fumble, tripping over the keys unflatteringly, as her gaze swept across the empty room, and she jumped with a start when she turned back around only to find Gastoldi leaning against the fireplace next to her, with a smug look on his infuriating face.

Stopping all together, she observed him cautiously, and despite herself, her cheeks warmed at the thought that Mr. Knightley might be watching.

“What are you…”

Her instructor grinned with so much contentment, it could have been called eerie.

“I have been presiding over your musical lessons since you were ten years old, you know”, he reminded her, taking great amusement in how she forced herself—with much difficulty—from stealing a look behind her. 

“Yes _and?_ ”

“Do not you think it curious indeed, that for so many years, I would so willingly turn a blind eye to your ridiculous attempts at reverting any form of improvement?”, he reasoned, waving away the notion as if it insulted him.

“If you truly did not learn, Miss Woodhouse, I would not be here now.”

Wide eyed, the blonde did chance a look behind her then, and her pink dusted cheeks turned crimson, when she found the room completely devoid of her guardian.

“You sly old man!”, Emma gaped, outraged, “How dare you trick me!”

_**“Emma!”** _

Miss Taylor’s appalled cry chastised her from the doorway, and this time the girl did visibly flinch as she turns to face her governess.

Hazel met brown, and the youngest of the two gulped.

“My word, Miss Woodhouse”, Anne was not amused, “to think I thought you old enough to be left to your own devices. How is it that now I must ask you to apologize—and yet you still have not!”

“But— _but_ Miss Taylor!”

“I do not wish to hear it, my dear”, the governess warned, sending her pupil a very sharp gaze, “unless, of course, it is your repentance for such unheard and crass behavior.”

The particular look Miss Taylor gave her, served as a reminder to Emma, that now was certainly not the time to fan the ever growing fires of her less than pleasing conduct.  
  
Having no other choice but to admit defeat, the blonde acquiesced with a sour pout, and turned to face her most detested music master.

“I am fatigued and have been rude, sir” she enunciated each word as if they left a terrible taste in her mouth, “allow me to go and rest so that I may reflect on my lack decorum.”

Gastoldi’s grin was as wicked as the one he’d used while tricking her before, though he granted her wish without any qualms.

“By all means”, he replied with a bow.

His student’s scowl was like a piercing dagger, even as she curtsied politely in return. 

Miss Taylor, for her part, waited until her charge scurried out of the room, before she too turned to the music teacher with an embarrassed grimace.

“You must pardon us”, she spoke, wringing her fingers anxiously, “our dear Emma is under the weather today—I-I beg you not mind it, for she means no harm.”

The old musician shook his head, dismissing the idea with a nonchalant shrug.

“I cannot hold any ill will towards an orphan child”, he confessed, and then purposely gestured at his surroundings, “no matter how elegant her situation.”

Miss Taylor’s timid smile was grateful, “were it not for age, she would already be mistress of her own house”, she lamented, “precious few would spare her sentiments beyond rancor and envy.”

Somewhat irked, Gastoldi lifted a curious brow, as if contemplating the hidden meaning in her words. 

Precious few would spare _her?_

“No matter how bleak the world, madam, sad children do not inspire contempt”, he assured, voice tight at the implication in what he felt were nonsense words, “it is only sad adults whom breed every manner of disesteem.” 

Miss Taylor quickly opened her mouth in retort, but suddenly grew taken aback, and as his implication settled, she instead lowered herself into the nearest seat.

“Emma is not _sad_ , Mr. Gastoldi”, her amused laugh sounded artificial even to her own ears, “she is merely bored.”

“ _Bored?_ ”, the instructor echoed, thoroughly unconvinced, “I see nothing deprived of her—

A gentle, pale arm extended in the air, cutting him off, as if the owner was begging for mercy.

“Nor does her guardian wish it”, the governess insisted, the pretty pretense of a pleasant smile on her lips doing nothing to hide the now uncomfortable air about the room, “… _at least_ …not musically, I hope?”

The man before her could only gawk, but forcibly digressed nonetheless.

Gastoldi is old, he has lived many years now, and taught for most of them. How many homes did he not see? How many children did he not meet?

In truth, as a mere master of music, there was far too much he has beheld in households such as this one, and he had long learned the serious consequences of getting involved in such delicate and troublesome matters.

Even this woman now, she was clearly partial to her own blindness by choice, so who was he to begrudge her a change in topic?

It was not his place, after all, nor should he ever want it to be. 

With a determined nod, the aging musician accepted his resolution—let _them_ call on a doctor, if one day the lady so wishes to see that which was right before her very eyes, though even he knew she’d never bear to—as for him, it was completely out of his hands.

He, _Eufrasio Gastoldi_ , was a teacher, his profession music, and music he shall teach.

Ignoring the governess’s expectant gaze, the former maestro ambulated towards the direction of the beautiful pianoforte—the one his much too privileged pupil was seemingly determined to batter until broken—and ran his hand over the rich woodwork appreciatively.

What he would have given to practice on—not mention _posses_ —such a magnificent instrument in his own youth?

Gastoldi sighed. 

“The girl’s playing is quite good, and she is able to learn any manner of song desired, were she not lazy and uninspired”, he spoke at last, moving to organize the songbook long left abandoned on the music desk, “perhaps a change in instrument will do her well—a _harp_ , I might be so bold to suggest—to bring forth those attributes in which she truly excels.”

Miss Taylor, now much recovered, blinked in surprise, “a harp, you say?”

The musician nodded as he made his way back to her, smiling coldly as he handed her Emma’s music book, “A most delicate instrument indeed, and a great favorite amongst young ladies of today”, he replied.

Anne averted her gaze as he stepped past, cradling the book to her her breast thoughtfully, as if hugging the owner itself. 

“Yes, I’ve heard it very well praised”, she agreed, garnering enough grace about her to attempt at another grin, “but won’t it interfere with her usual lessons?”

Gastoldi snorted, barely making a show of considering the question, whilst he paused to retrieve his belongings— _beating stick and all._

“Oh not to worry, madam”, he assured, his acerbic tone almost derisive, “scarcely will it have need to be played well at all, as long as the owner is pleasing enough to look at.” 

….

  
Emma bit her lip in both apprehension and indignation, and even though it hurt, she continued to do so all the way towards the servant’s quarters.

How she despised that Gastoldi—how she despised her own short temper that much more! 

Hadn’t she learned by now to control herself? Wasn’t she meant to be above embittered music masters and— _and_ overly foolish stable boys?

Now that Mr. Knightley wouldn’t spare half a glance her way, was it an aspiration of her bad humor that her beloved Miss Taylor should follow suit?

Despite her slow steps, the gasping breath in her throat grew strained and uncomfortably shallow, and her limbs shook as if they’d been pricked with sharp little pins and needles at the thought of them— _all of them._ Every last one!

Could not anyone understand _her_ for once?

As she walked, the headache threatening to split her skull in half grew tenfold, just as the taste of blood hit her tongue, and by now even the bow tied to her long golden mane inexplicably made her want to pull all her hair out in one go. 

The very idea made her want to laugh, and then shriek, until the last of her voice was all gone.

Stopping to take a deep breath, Emma swiped her tongue over the injured part of her lip, and then reach up to gently pat the ribbon Sophie had kindly replaced for her after her _ridiculous_ escapade to the barns.

The blonde’s eyes fluttered closed, letting out a faint sigh, just as her fingers came across the soft, luxurious satin, and any sudden urge she had felt in ripping it away from her, subsided slightly.

For no matter what, despite all exasperation and disappointment, she knew such thoughts could never _ever_ be acted upon. 

She was _E_ mma Woodhouse, she reminded herself, allowing the feel of the rich material to sooth the sore tips of her tired digits for a moment longer, before letting her hands drop back to her sides again.

Not just _any_ Woodhouse either, but in name, the very last in all of Highbury—no other soul in the whole wide world, she reasoned, could dare claim the honor.

As she resumed her walk, Emma ignored the sleepy halls about her, and lifting her head higher, she allowed her posture to grow straight and rigid.

From this moment on, she pledged, however unbecoming she may act, and whatever thoughts tormented her mind, they _should_ and _would_ only ever be known to none but her.

Her anger too, was her own, and she granted no rights for any onlookers to be privy of it outside herself. 

Indeed, she deeply craved nothing more than to fling and throw the first things in her sight, and then just as fervently watch in satisfaction how they all shattered into a useless pile on the floor.

Or even to yell and sob, loud and impassioned enough, until _all_ would be forced to hear it.

There was much she wished she could do…

But any price was worth being _Emma Woodhouse._

Who would dare not pay it?

Forcing away any further contemplative thoughts for now, she paused to observe the row of crudely displayed tallow candles lining a nearby entryway, and frowned. 

It was the first time Emma had ventured anywhere near the staff rooms, but still she never imagined they would be so dim and dreary. 

Using the stone archway as an aid, she peered into the dark adjacent hallway ahead, recalling how Sophie had once mentioned something about a staircase. 

For the life of her now, however, the blonde hadn’t even the faintest clue as to where it could possibly be located.

Also, was it always so… _frightening_ down here?

“You there!”, She called, after taking a moment to scout about the area for a helping hand, only to come across one lone girl, young in face, hastening to avoid her, “Come here!”

Taking everything within her power to do so, Emma refrained from rolling her eyes as the servant girl awkwardly stumbled towards her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Woodhouse”, she spoke gingerly, lowering her gaze as she curtsied.

“You are?”

The girl curtsied again, “Mary, from the kitchens.” 

“If you work in the kitchen, why are you covered in soot?”, Emma couldn’t help but ask, as she took in the worn, rough material of her dark stained clothes.

“It is coal from the fires, Miss Woodhouse.”

Her brows knitting in concern, and used to the ancient wooden fireplaces of upstairs, the blonde took half a step back, and looked over the girl’s head as if expecting the same smoke to engulf her at any moment. 

“I am looking for a room, where my personal attendant Sophie, keeps”, she explained, trying her best not to cover her nose, “ _please_ tell me you know of her?”

The little kitchen maid shook her head, keeping her eyes averted, “personal attendants are housed upstairs”, she replied, lifting a jittery finger towards the two large doors down the hall.

Emma followed the gesture, and nodded, sending the girl a grateful look, “Then you will come with me”, she ordered, “I refuse to be on my own, here in this ghastly place.” 

Mary, whom with much anxiety knew to be expected at her post, could only do as she was told.

This was how she found herself, climbing after the master of the house’s ward, up the two sets of stairs that not just the head cook, but Mrs. Hodge _herself_ , expressly forbade of her and the rest of the downstairs staff. 

The young mistress spoke amiably as she lead the way, pretending to not take any note of the cracks and dust, laden across every fourth step, and half the expanse of the walls, but the maid heard none of it. Much too mesmerized, was she, with the back of the pristine white morning gown the other wore, and its beautiful pink and gold trimmings. 

How elegant Miss Woodhouse was, the servant thought with a smile, so put together and lovely, and almost untouchable, much like one of the little muslin and ivory dolls up on the shelves of Ford’s.

Never in all her short years of working at the Abbey, had Mary ever thought to see such a sight right before her eyes!

“How shall we know which door is hers?”, She heard Miss Woodhouse wonder out loud.

Once she too had made it all the way up, the servant girl took in the large number of rooms before them, and gaped.

If her mistress did not know, how could possibly she?

Though before Mary had time to answer, a resounding set of giggles broke through the echoing silence, just as two plucky chambermaids burst out from one of the side rooms, arms intertwined affectionately whilst chatting among themselves.

Looking back to Miss Woodhouse, whom wordlessly prompted her forward in their direction, the kitchen maid rubbed the worn sleeve on her arm as she sheepishly took a step towards them. 

_“That’s what I heard as well!”_ , one of the two older girls exclaimed, whispering loudly as if oblivious to the world around her.

The other, a gangly brunette with a pinched face, brought a hand to her lips in an effort to hide her titters, _“Yes, and he was…”_

Her words suddenly trailed off warily, just as she caught sight of Mary, but quickly taking in her appearance, she gestured to her friend with a hint of amusement.

“Well, what is _this?_ ”, her companion, the taller of the two, mocked, eyeing the little maid as she folded into herself, “I thought all the _cindery_ scullery maids were told to stay in the kitchens.”

Evading the taunt, Mary could only smile weakly, gripping her mended apron by it’s patch as she curtsied, “M-Miss W—

“How curious!”, The same girl added, allowing her voice to carry across the hall, “It can speak, yet how is it that it still fails to understand?”

The brunette’s much too amused laugh, of which only served to spur the other maid on, faded to a gasp, and pulling on her friend’s skirt in warning, she curtsied low.

_“Miss Woodhouse”_ , she muttered, when her partner sent her a puzzled look.

The diversion on the taller girl’s face also slackened, and she too curtsied, keeping her head low as she caught sight of the unamused stare on Mr. Knightley’s ward, whom had so suddenly just seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Emma cast the little kitchen maid a severe and unimpressed glare as she pushed her aside, and with the true authority befitting her station, she allowed her intimidating eyes to sweep lazily over them whom had so daringly stalled her from the important task at hand. 

As her bored hazel gaze addressed the two cowering chambermaids, she scoffed.

_‘Why was it always the squealing mice whom fancied themselves roaring lions?’_

It was outmost paramount that Sophie were to be found, and what’s more, Emma cared very little to play with silly and insignificant pray. 

“I fail to see the humor”, the heiress declared at last, taking her time in slowly sizing up one girl and then other, finding great pleasure in how for every half step she took forward, they were very mindful to retreat an extra two.

“A pity”, she tutted, “for I do so love to laugh.”

There was something to be said about the satisfaction one feels when graced with the power to look down on those whom not only coveted above their station, but could not afford lifting their own heads higher than that which their weak necks could hold.

Raising an expectant brow, she offered either of them the opportunity to do so now, and smirked knowingly when both girls kept their noses pointed at their feet.

Emma beamed, extending her soft, pale hand so that it could touch for a second, the plane cream colored maid’s cap on the tallest’s sensibly styled hair, and gently appreciated how it paired well enough with the flowery pattern of her cotton dress.

“Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me?” 

With her own hands clasping together tight enough to make her knuckles go white, the older servant girl kept her head lowered as she shook it.

“I dare not, Miss Woodhouse”, she replied, her boisterous pride reduced to a modest whisper.

The young mistress quirked her lips in a show of indifference, and turned to the brunette, whom already had the good sense to trembled without needing to be told.

“And you?”

Wordlessly, she also shook her head.

Their employer’s ward nodded, letting out the smallest and most delicate of sighs, as if put out that the weight of the world had dared inconvenience her dainty shoulders for a moment longer than it could ever have the privilege to. 

“Well then, if you’re all done reacquainting yourselves as servants”, she insisted, gracing them with a smile just as frigid as it was dazzling, “might I suggest seeing to your duties—preferably _before_ replacements are in order?”

“Yes, Miss. Woodhouse”, they both muttered in unison, curtsying low one last time.

Dismissing them with barely a look of farewell, Emma ignored as they tripped over themselves in an effort to scamper away quick enough, in what she assumed, was their desperate hope to preserve what little dignity still afforded them tails between their legs.

“ _Ah_ —wait!…M-Miss Woodhouse…” 

The sound of the scullery maid’s timid voice, however, brought the chambermaids to a sudden halt, and with identical wincing looks marring their faces, they were forced to turn back around.

Miss Woodhouse huffed, “What is it?”

Mary, whom until mere moments ago had only been able to look on at the happenings with wide apprehensive eyes, pulled nervously at her apron.

“…The room..?”

“ _Ah_ , yes!”, the blonde exclaimed, deigning her with a rare appreciative glance, before leveling the other two with her attention once more.

“One of you”, she ordered, signaling with a gesture for them to be quick about it, “point me in the way of Sophie’s room, if you could _bare_ to be so kind.”

The chamber maids shared anxious looks, and after mouthing silently to each other for a slight moment, one was nudged forward. 

“She takes residence down the next hall, Miss Woodhouse”, the brunette answered, rubbing her shoulder discretely with a sharp glare to her friend, “the second to last door. Shall I—

“Did you not hear?”, Emma asked the kitchen maid, whom nodded most readily, “Go then and fetch her for me.”

As Mary took her leave, the other two, not yet dismissed for a second time, blanched and quickly lowered their heads once more when Miss Woodhouse caught their stares.

Playing at ignorance, the blonde feigned a great interest in her ring long enough for the maids to squirm under her presence for half a minute more, but just as boredom set in, she rolled her eyes. 

“ _Go away._ ”

Neither girl needed to be told twice.

And, for _all_ that time needlessly wasted, it only took less than two minutes for the scullery maid to show up with a concerned faced Sophie in tow.

“Miss Woodhouse?”, she cried, hurrying at the sight of Emma, “You really are here— _oh_ , but if you had need of me, why did you not have someone call?”

The younger girl readily dismissed the french woman’s worry with a grin.

“What does it matter?”, she replied, “I am here now.”

Young Mary, whom minded herself to keep quiet, grew stunned with awe at the genuine look the little Mistress shared with her attendant. 

It was the very first time— _well since having the honor of just meeting her_ —that the little maid was able to take special note of how when Miss Woodhouse’s lips lifted high enough into what she now realized was the form of her true smile, a small secret dimple would appear at the corner of her mouth. 

This was also the first time the gentleman’s daughter did not seem to be so very frighteningly impeccable, or even, overwhelmingly indifferent to all around her. 

“Mary, from the kitchens?”

Startled out of her reverie, the scullery maid averted her gaze when addressed, “Yes, Miss Woodhouse?”

“Have I something on my face?”

“N-no, Miss Woodhouse”, she muttered, heat flooding to her cheeks in embarrassment.

Emma shared a half amused look with Sophie, and shook her head in mock annoyance when the older girl’s lips twitched.

“Then you may go—ah, but _do_ keep in mind, if ever I come across you cowering before any other servant again, I myself will personally see to your immediate removal”, she replied, tone once again bored, even whilst leveling the younger girl with a sincere yet pointed look.

“I dare say Mr. Knightley will have no use for undependable workers.”

While Mary solemnly nodded her understanding, both of Sophie’s brows lifted in astonishment as she turned to peer pensively at her mistress.

The lady’s maid stayed like so, seemingly amazed, even while curtsying as the little kitchen maid bid her farewells. 

“What a fine child”, she commented, once the girl had gone.

Emma only scoffed, and held out her hand for the French woman to take.

“Come, show me to your rooms”, she said, eyes gleaming mischievously, “I have a task for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salutations from Italics anonymous!
> 
> Alright so...yeah. It's more than a few days later than when I originally planned on updating. I just wasn't satisfied with the chapter then, and I'm not really all that satisfied with it even now. However, I had to post eventually...so here it is, in all it's massive glory. But seriously tho. It's probably way too long. Enjoy!
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts :)


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